Scraps from the Coal Scuttle
by AdidasandPie
Summary: Drabbles, one-shots, and other short anecdotes about our favorite duo and company. No slash.
1. Recognition

"Holmes," I half-sighed, "Does it not bother you at all that the newspapers give you next to no credit, and nearly fall upon the Yard with praise, when they hardly do _anything_ except for bumble around and _maybe_ do something _somewhat_ productive if they are profoundly lucky; and you are the one who has done all the work?"

Sherlock Holmes looked up at me with one eyebrow cocked in surprise from his position across the table. I was hardly prone to outbursts, especially insulting ones, and I felt my cheeks color slightly. I gestured to the article in the paper I had been reading, which detailed the case he had solved earlier in the week. Holmes had been in a good mood since its conclusion earlier in the week, a fact for which I was profusely glad. It was a welcome change from the usual 'black moods' he normally sunk into with the end of a case. It seems that in his stead I had been the one to become irritable, for it was with a rather grumpy mood that I had woke up that morning.

Holmes seemed to be enjoying his breakfast, which was more than I could say, and indeed more than I would have hoped for. It was good that he was eating at all, no less heartily digging into his bacon. I, however, had not gotten my answer, and returned the gesture of cocking a eyebrow.

Holmes gave me one of his smiles that lasted a fraction of a second, and wiped his mouth, straightening up in his chair.

"Watson, do you ever receive recognition for your own professional cases?"

I frowned slightly. "No, but I'm a doctor, not a detective. I would think that your job is more comparable to that of the inspectors of the Yard rather than a doctor." I replied, not seeing where he was going with his last remark.

"I think, Watson, that given the choice of being compared with either a bumbler from the Yard or a man like yourself, I should surely choose the latter. There are people more deserving than myself of being praised in the papers."

I was left a little shocked at this backhanded compliment, and sat with my mouth half open while Holmes returned to his bacon with gusto.

I was glad to see, though, that my grumpiness had disappeared most completely.


	2. Reassurance

These three years had not treated my dear Watson well. Little wonder, considering the circumstances. First, he had been burdened with my 'death', for which he no doubt felt undeserved guilt. Then, his wife and baby were claimed just as he was recovering. Surely such an honest and just man as Watson did not deserve all this grief?

He came out of the courtroom, looking haggard and thinner, and completely devoid of life.

I had not mean to get anywhere near him. I had meant to just observe him from a distance, and follow him back to his consulting room. I was tactful enough to place him in comfortable settings when I confronted him with the truth. It also provided him with the choice of kicking me (and rightly so) out of the room.

I suppose I gravitated towards him on my own accord. The familiar sights and sounds I sensed upon my return to London were all but lost to me. London was not worth returning to without my friend to welcome me back.

It was my own fault that we collided, but Watson, ever polite, apologized profusely and even retrieved my books for me. His voice was a hollow shell of the one I recognized. It was not out of agitation that I grasped for his arm, but rather to reunite myself with him. To reassure myself of his presence.

Thank God that when he did the same to me a few hours later, it was with an exuberant smile and that rare quality of forgiveness that only my dear Watson possesses.

A/N: I'm contemplating getting a beta reader. I don't think my stories have very many grammatical or spelling errors, but I'm not as familiar with canon as I'd like to be, and my Victorian knowledge is limited. So if anyone has any advice as to whether or not to get one, it would be much appreciated.


	3. Nature's Call

Sherlock Holmes and I were perched precariously among the limbs of a willow tree in one Benedict Daugney's large lawn. Daugney was the prime suspect in Holmes's latest case; involving a failed construction project, misplaced birth certificate, and leaking dinghy. Holmes had successfully drawn an effective net around Daugney, leaving us to tie the final knot tonight.

Daugney and his confederate lay inert at the three's roots, their snores floating up towards us. I shall not delve into the details of the lengthy case, but will suffice to say that the two were waiting, as we were, for the signal that would seal the deal for Daugney and us. We only had to catch him before he escaped, explaining the need for our vigil in the tree. Both Daugney and his accomplice had fallen asleep earlier in the night. We did not dare to talk for fear that we would wake them, but every so often I would look over at Holmes, inquiring if the time was ripe yet, and he would shake his head.

My limbs were getting cramped from sitting in the same position all night long, but soon I was becoming restless for another reason. I waited until I could restrain myself no longer, and then leaned in closer to Holmes and whispered urgently in his ear, feeling my face flush when he looked at me exasperatedly.

"Watson, this is not the time to be in need of a chamber pot!"

A/N: I'm sorry, but it had to have happened sometime.


	4. Impressions

A/N: I find this highly amusing and very, very cool. My house is situated between Watson Road and Holmes Avenue. No joke. Both streets are within walking distance of my house.

Often Watson and I would take leisurely strolls through Hyde Park and ramble about obscure and unrelated topics. It was on one such stroll that we passed by a group of university lads playing rugby.

Watson had mentioned that he used to play rugby when we moved in together at 221b, but he never elaborated on it much.

I didn't pay much attention to the game as we walked by until a rugby ball struck me square in the shoulder. I rubbed my arm ruefully and turned to face a distraught young man running up to us. Watson bent to pick up the ball and made to throw it to the lad, but hesitated. I knew he was thinking of his own shoulder.

"Very sorry, sir, that was a wild throw!" The lad said, apologizing profusely to me. He turned towards Watson to collect the ball, and stopped in his tracks.

"Excuse me sir, but you aren't John Watson, are you?"

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "I am he,"

The young man's eyes lit up, and he began to wring Watson's hand enthusiastically.

"Oh, sir, it is an honor to meet you! I've been a supporter of The Club* all my life- I was a big fan of yours, sir. The team has never really been the same without you, Mr. Watson!"

"Doctor" I corrected, amused and a little intrigued by the scene playing out.

"A doctor! Well, sir, you could have made a star rugby player if you had wanted to, I'm sure!" He turned around and gestured to a few of his mates excitedly.

I cocked an eyebrow at my friend, only to receive a bewildered glance.

"This here, lads, is John Watson!"

The others reacted much the same as the first, and Watson shook all of their hands.

"I don't suppose you could play with us, Dr. Watson?"

Watson smiled sadly. "No, lads, I'm afraid I did in my shoulder in Afghanistan."

I pondered this while Watson dealt with the rugby players. I had no idea Watson had been such a good player- he never mentioned it. I supposed it would have been a sad topic, considering he couldn't participate in it anymore. I compared his not being able to play rugby to my not being able to use my chemistry set anymore, and wondered why he did not pout or complain about it more.

Then I remembered that he was Watson. Pout, indeed.

"It seems you are quite the legend," I remarked when he finally extricated himself from the lads.

"I'd no idea that I'd made such an impact," he admitted, shaking his head.

"You make an impact wherever you go, old fellow."

A/N: I find it funny that Watson is a jock and Holmes is a chemistry nerd. Friendship conquers all.

*Blackheath (Watson's old team) was simply called 'The Club' back then.


	5. Estimations

"Don't move a muscle, Mr. Holmes." An icy voice resonated from the door of the sitting room.

I turned slowly to face it, my violin still resting under my chin. Hugh Morris stood in the doorway with a pistol aimed at my head. Morris was the latest murderer to plague the streets of London. I had wrapped up his prosecution nicely, or so I thought, and sent Scotland Yard to make the arrest. I would have done it myself, but Watson had caught a nasty cold, and I insisted (against his protests) that we return to Baker Street so he could rest.

Morris wasted no time in entering the room and first collecting my gun from the mantel, then Watson's service revolver from his desk drawer.

"I've read the stories," He said smugly, while walking back towards the door, his pistol still trained levelly on me. "I know your methods. That's your greatest weakness, that you have published accounts of how you work available for everyone to see."

My mind was working furiously to come up with a plan to get out of this mess, but nothing was presenting itself. Morris wasn't even a clever criminal- he was more of a brute force kind of fellow. He could not have foiled me so easily.

"It was so very easy to beat you, Mr. Holmes. The landlady was no problem to overpower, and the doctor doesn't provide much of a threat. Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I don't see why you keep him around. All he does is hinder you, or hold a gun, and even _that_ he can't do competently."

I bristled silently at the insults to Watson. If he did not have a gun pointed at my head, I would throttle him thoroughly.

"But even you, Mr. Holmes, cannot live through a shot to the head. I rather think Dr. Watson overestimates you in his stories, this was so very easy-"

He was cut off swiftly when Watson snuck up behind him and wrestled _both_ guns from his grip and effectively put him in a headlock.

"I have good reason to keep him around, Mr. Morris. I am not the only one Dr. Watson estimates wrongly in his stories."

* * *

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews.


	6. Influences

I did not enjoy playing the violin in my youth. It was somewhat forced upon me as a boy. I went through seventeen instructors during my childhood. Most left due to the 'lack of respect' I showed them. How could I respect someone that talked to me as if I was completely ignorant, when I was more intelligent than them? It was only because of my parent's very persistent insistence that I learned to play.

My disposition towards the instrument changed very little with my maturation, but I kept the Stradivarius that a client presented to me at the conclusion of one of my early cases. I played it occasionally, mostly for its calming purposes and usefulness when I was pondering a case.

It was not until I moved in with Watson that I actually began to _enjoy_ playing it. In the beginning I only played it for his enjoyment. I used it to send him to sleep and keep him asleep when a nightmare arose. Mendelssohn's _Lieder_ became something of a anthem between us.

The Stradivarius soon became just as appealing as the cocaine at the conclusion of a case, and even more so when Watson showed his disapproval of the drug.

It was just yet another (welcome) side effect of Watson.


	7. Anstruther

A/N: I like the first paragraph, but after that I'm afraid it gets too depressing. This is from Dr. Anstruther's POV

* * *

My relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes is indeed an odd one. Although we by no means see each other on a regular basis, I believe I am one of very few men to see him display strong emotion. Perhaps I am the only one, excepting his brother and Dr. Watson. Each of our rare (though far more common than either of us like, considering the circumstances) meetings are invariably accompanied by a sick or injured Dr. Watson and therefore incessantly worrying Holmes. Or a sick Watson and exhausted Holmes. Or both of them injured. Or both of them sick. I have learned to keep an open mind with these two. If one of them is sick, the other soon ends up in the same state due to their stubborn vigilance.

Mr. Holmes is usually in frenzied state by the time he calls upon me. In any other man I would say near panic, but this is Sherlock Holmes we are describing. Holmes only comes to me when Watson is too ill or injured to tend to himself. It takes quite a lot to bring down Dr. Watson, and more to get Mr. Holmes to show emotion. But I have seen both.

I had seen behavior from Mr. Holmes that is very contrary to the 'cold, calculating machine' most think he is. I have seen him frayed with worry, near tears, and practically jumping with elation, all over one man. They are extremely loyal to each other. We all know of Dr. Watson's loyalty, whether you have met him or not, because of his stories. Mr. Holmes' loyalty has the same depth, it is just not laid out for the public to see.

I see Mr. Holmes in his worst times. I see him when Dr. Watson is unconscious and feverish. Then, the apathetic mask drops off and a concerned, grievous face takes its place.

As a doctor, I have seen many men worry over a friend's fate. Never have I seen a man so stubbornly vigilant as Sherlock Holmes, though I am sure Dr. Watson could contest. They are indeed the truest friends I've come across.


	8. Foil

A/N: The other day when my teacher was rambling about mitochondria and eukaryotic cells, she used the word "deduction". I do believe it was the most interesting thing she's said all year, for I broke out of my trance and listened raptly for about ninety seconds. Then I realized she was _not_ going to make a reference to Sherlock Holmes, and resumed staring blankly at the wall.

I'm sorry this is so late. I spent the day celebrating the beginning of my spring break, and couldn't start this until later tonight. Didn't proofread it.

This one was inspired by both a quote I saw on the wall today at school and KCS's sentence #31 Book.

The quote immediately reminded me of this quote from HOUN- "It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it."

The quote I saw today, from Edith Wharton, is "There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it."

And the sentence, which I especially adore, is "Watson would never know the true reason behind Holmes's detestation of the _Strand _stories: that he could not endure seeing a brilliant man reduced to a gullible foil."

One more thing- I read a fic a while back that had something along the lines of "Watson could have easily contested with Dickens". I can't remember what it was or whom it was by (It may have very well been KCS, and if so, it seems I am taking quite a bit of plot bunnies from her today), but it was good and apparently it stuck in my mind. Now this author's note is threatening to be longer than the actual drabble, so I'll stop.

* * *

Contrary to what I told Watson, and therefore the population of London, I read all of his stories in the _Strand_. However, I cannot say that I enjoyed them. Oh, it was not for lack of quality writing. Watson could have easily contested with his idol Dickens if he so desired, but he limited himself to chronicling only my cases. It seemed that he was set upon recording my life and times, then romanticizing them to the point that even I could barely recognize them. They were very well done, considering the public's tastes these days, but I myself am privy to more scientific writings.

Romanism, however, was also not the reason why I did not enjoy my friend's writings. It was not that his representation of me was unsavory, either. It was both accurate and admirable, and gave me some comfort to know how highly and fondly Watson thought of me. That is why it baffles me that everyone accepts my negligence for the stories so readily. Who could not resist the chance to see what others perceived them like, much less catch a glimpse into their dearest friend's mind? I was indeed pleased by his description of me, except for the times when he made me seem like an emotional cad ready to burst into tears at any moment.

Lately it was not the scenes that made me look emotional that bothered me, but the ones that made me look so callous towards my friend. I could care less about his readers' views on me, but it was a little disconcerting to know that he could think that I cared so little for anyone. In his descriptions I was arrogant towards most, including Watson. Perhaps I did act that way. I could not pledge for my actions when on a case. When the fervor took me, I would act like a hound upon a scent, with about as much manners as one. I should endeavor to be more polite to Watson at least.

Though the descriptions of me were fairly accurate, I could say nothing of the sort for Watson. He downplayed his own intelligence and personality so much that for every four words his inaccurate characterization uttered, my story form spewed forth a whole paragraph of fantastic speech and insight. This in itself was inconceivable. How would such a dull man as he projected himself to be in the stories write such brilliant and intelligent accounts of the case? This under exaggeration of my friend's ability was what irked me in the stories, and the primary reason I spoke with such vehemence and disdain when we spoke of them.

Earlier in our friendship, I would not have dreamed of confronting him on the matter. To admit to that I had read the stories when I had several times put them down was both highly embarrassing and out of the question. However, my Hiatus had changed me substantially and made me reconsider my priorities. Still, it was with careful planning and after several failed attempts that I finally brought up the subject.

"How has your latest account been received in the _Strand_, Watson?"

Watson cocked an eyebrow at my unusual and thereof unheard of question.

"Very well, though I'm not sure it was all that well written."

"Yes, indeed" I replied nonchalantly from my lounging position on the settee. "I do believe there were quite a few character flaws."

"Where?" Watson asked wearily, and with a little annoyance at my criticism.

"Yours."

"Oh?" The corner of his mouth was beginning to lift in a semblance of a smile.

"Mmm. You hardly do yourself justice, old fellow,"

Watson laughed a bit at that. "It's not _my_ name that's on the cover of the book."

"Whose is it, then? I'll pummel the scoundrel."

"Oh, do stop it."

"Why isn't it there?"

"Perhaps, Holmes, because I am not a mystery-solving detective."

"But you are invariably there."

"Not on the Musgrave Ritual or the Gloria Scott."

"I would hardly have expected it. You were somewhat engaged at the time, I think, and I hardly think your commanding officer would have allowed you to take leave just to accompany a unheard of detective whom you had never met."

"Perhaps not. But what are these flaws you speak of?"

"One would think I allow any bumbling idiot to be my fellow-lodger."

"And have you?"

"By devil, Watson!" I exclaimed, exasperated at his unending good humor and patience. "You make yourself look like a fool!"

"So you have read them." He grinned, then seeing my frown, continued. "Not all of us possess your genius, Holmes."

"And not all of us possess your patience!"

He smiled again. "There is a basic rule of storytelling, Holmes, that the protagonist has a comrade who contrasts with him to better bring out the main character's qualities."

I merely grumbled at this. Watson, a mere foil? He was half the story. Both my professional popularity and my professional success hinged on his presence. Without his stories, I might still be a struggling amateur. Without his presence on my cases, I might have not solved several of them. He had an uncanny knack for making clues stand out, and theories form. I found that going out on a case without him was somewhat like going out without my right arm.

And without his friendship, I could see nothing but dull, monotonous misery.

I suppose his blundering alter ego did have its perks. Criminals would not be expecting a gullible foil, not a capable army veteran with a brain to match his aim with a revolver.


	9. Neighbors

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone for the reviews. I know it can be easy just to read and move on, especially with drabbles, so I appreciate the reviews I get. But be assured that I don't mind if you're just reading and (hopefully) enjoying.

One note: I'm not too familiar (who am I kidding, I'm not at all familiar) with the structure of British apartments, so I hope this is somewhat plausible. First time with third person point of view for me, I think.

I like this one.

The occupants of no. 221a Baker Street were most long-suffering people. Perhaps they were not _long_-suffering, for none of them lasted very long, but suffering all the same.

The lodger who had the distinction of staying for the shortest amount of time in no. 221a was a tweedy, nervous fellow who only lasted sixteen hours. He had the misfortune to move in the same night Mr. Sherlock Holmes decided perform a particularly loud chemical experiment. It required several trials, and needless to say, the poor man was quite anxious to find new lodgings by morning.

A young married couple managed to last four years, mainly because there was no one living in the neighboring flat for the majority of their stay. They had experienced rather enough disturbances in the first year, however, and hurried out of the place when they learned they would once again have neighboring lodgers; leaving a scrawled note that they were deucedly happy Mr. Holmes was alive, but they had found the most charming little house on Farringdon Street and were very eager to move into it, they were most regretful that they would not be neighbors anymore.

There was the old man who had lived in 221a longer than either the detective or the doctor had even been alive, but was driven out of his beloved home within the first six months of meeting his neighbors.

A half a dozen landlords come and went, though with considerably less quickness than their tenants. They marveled at Mrs. Hudson, who more than once could recall being asked "How do you put up with it?".

She could not imagine putting up with anyone else.


	10. Children

A/N: Two for today, since I didn't post yesterday. Mycroft's POV, by the way. I'm aware this has been done a couple times before. I'm just piggybacking.

* * *

I dearly regret inviting Dr. Watson to such a formal dinner. The way he is behaving, and in front of the Archduke, no less! Oh, I'm sure Dr. Watson is a perfect gentleman. And my brother is as well when the occasion calls for it. It is the combination of the two together that makes them behave like little children.

At least the doctor is making an effort to restrain himself. On the contrary, Sherlock does nothing of the kind. He keeps nudging the doctor and whispering things in his ear. Then, of course, they both snigger like mad fools and completely lose their composure. I shall have to explain to the Archduke that I have never seen either of them in my life.

One would think I might have some experience with this sort of thing because I am the elder sibling. I have none whatsoever. Sherlock was an odd child, keeping to himself nearly all the time. He was terribly condescending, as if the other children were not worthy of him. To my dismay, this attitude carried on into his adult years. He rarely associated with anyone, much less laugh and jest. That being said, it was to my great surprise that I saw Sherlock walking arm in arm with someone up to my club one day. It was to my even greater surprise when he introduced this person as his friend. My interest was instantly aroused by anyone that could befriend Sherlock.

I have not been disappointed with Dr. Watson until now. He has proved to be a staunch comrade and kind companion to my brother. It seems Sherlock brings out the best of him on their cases, and the worst in him at dinner. I sympathize greatly for their poor landlady. Oh, now they are really making proper idiots of themselves, flinging snow peas at me!

I shall have to remember not to sit in their direct line of fire next time I invite them to dinner.


	11. Surprise

A/N: Thank goodness for thesauruses.

I make a reference to KCS and PGF's wonderful, wonderful story _Vows Made In Storms_ in here; so if you haven't read that, go do it now. You don't need to read it to understand this, but it's a fantastic story.

* * *

Dr. Watson had an uncanny ability to surprise me.

He first caught me off guard by managing to befriend my brother, and then further surprised me when he started accompanying Sherlock on his cases.

He shocked me a few years later by showing up on my doorstep, covered in blood, and leaning heavily on my white-faced brother; and when prompted what happened, offered only "I was protecting this fool". It did not shock me when he collapsed promptly afterwards, but the resulting pallor of my sibling's face did.

He astonished me when he took out three armed criminals, carried my unconscious brother out of the warehouse, and called for the police- all while handcuffed. He dumbfounded me when he mentioned all this to my brother nonchalantly, as if it were a regular occurrence.

He flabbergasted me when he was able to treat Sherlock for a broken ankle and fractured ribs when he himself had a concussion. He even succeeded in keeping Sherlock in bed- that is until my brother found out about Dr. Watson's head wound.

He bewildered me by not harboring bitter feelings towards my brother after Reichenbach, and further astounded me by forgiving Sherlock so willingly three years later.

He startled me when he told me how he had pulled Sherlock back from the death's doorstep when my brother was stabbed with a dirty knife, and contracted a nasty fever from it.

He frightened me when Sherlock sent a telegraph from the _Freisland_, explaining that his earlier infection had been no accident, and now the doctor was deathly ill from an unknown tropical disease, also not an accident.

It didn't surprise me when he recovered.

He left me dazed when he knocked out a man in one blow who had insulted Sherlock.

He baffled me when he re-enlisted in Her Majesty's forces, and stunned me when he came back unscathed.

I was a little surprised and very relieved to know that both he and my brother _would_ outlive me, despite their very dangerous lifestyles and my very sedentary one.

I was taken aback when I saw his eyes glisten as he and Sherlock visited me on my deathbed.

I was blown away when he said, "I'll take care of him", gesturing towards my brother.

I realized that even after knowing the man for over thirty-five years and with my superior observatory faculties, I could still did not 'get his limits', as Sherlock would say.

He still had the ability to surprise me.


	12. Terrible

A/N: I'm going out of town (and out of wireless range) for the next couple of days, and will not be able to post. Hopefully, though, I'll have ample time to write, and perhaps start that multi-chapter story I've been thinking of.

I'm sorry this was rather not good and horribly sad. I felt very ill when I was writing this, so I'm not sure I was all that focused. I'm not even sure it's in character.

* * *

It was the most terrible, heart-wrenching thing I had ever seen. Only two curt sentences, devoid of details of any kind, but it made my chest constrict in a most unpleasant manner. It described the whole thing in such a detached, apathetic manner that I nearly ripped the paper into shreds.

Not only his wife, but his child as well. My dear Watson, he had been a prospective father. He would have fitted the role so well. I am not a sentimental man, but I would have dearly loved to see the child.

Surely not even he, staunch and brave as he was, could bear losing his wife, child, and dear friend in such a short time? My death had hit him hard enough. He loved his wife so much, and I imagine he cared for the child just as much, if not more.

Blast it, news got to me so slowly. The date of this paper was nearly three months ago. Dear Lord, I hope he hadn't done anything reckless…

I would never forgive myself for letting him stay alone. I was so close. I could not compromise three years. I had only a little while longer, just weeks. But would Watson last that long?

It was harder to leave him alone now than it was at Reichenbach. I could barely bring myself to not jump on the next train to London then and there.

I could only hope that he would remain as solid as I knew him to be.


	13. Odd Hours

A/N: I've been out of wireless range for a few days, so I was overjoyed to plop down on my futon and find 21 new e-mails in my inbox and a landslide of new chapters and stories posted.

On another note, after consulting rabidsamfan's profile, I've realized that I've been calling these little… anecdotes by the wrong name. They aren't drabbles. A drabble is "100 words _precisely_". Turns out some of these things I write are 'droubbles' and some are 'trabbles' (don't I feel intelligent), and some apparently don't have a name. Is there a proper name for the longer ones? Perhaps I should make something up. Huh.

* * *

One would think that I would be used to odd hours by now.

I have campaigned across Afghanistan, where, as a member of Her Majesty's forces, we were kept on call at all hours of the day and night. We would perhaps arise early to secure a position before a battle, or to retreat to somewhere with a bit more security. There were the wounded to account for as well. It was not irregular for me to be up the whole night on a vigil for some poor soul.

I had expected to return to some semblance of regular hours upon my discharge. What an absurd idea.

In Stamford's defense, he did try to warn me. But I was thrilled at the prospect of finally settling in somewhere. The rooms were admirable, and the price even more so after it had been split in two. The idea of a companion was certainly enthralling to me as well. To be in a relatively unfamiliar city with neither kin nor kith makes for a most miserable existence.

I was of the opinion that I deserved several years of uninterrupted sleep, but Providence had other plans. Between nightmares of the war and my new acquaintance, I daresay I got much slumber.

The nightmares improved, with time, but my sleep deprivation worsened in the other regard. One never becomes accustomed to being doused with ice water in the middle of the night.

I really cannot blame anyone but myself in that regard. I probably encouraged him with all my praise and admiration. And I was a veritable monster to awaken- or so I have been told.

I fancied that I would grow accustomed to being awoken in various hours of the night to go chase someone or something; and I did- but I by no means enjoyed it.

I suppose it was all rather worth a few sleepless nights.

* * *

Talk about a cheesy ending line.


	14. Cut Out

A/N: Let's play with dialogue, shall we?

Oh, I've another question for you all (big surprise). I've been seeing disclaimers pop up in a lot of new stories. I was under the impression that we needn't use them anymore, something about a free domain. I'd rather not be sued, so knowledge on that would be greatly appreciated.

* * *

"Can you manage, Holmes?"

"Yes, I think I have it."

"Be careful."

"Do stop your fussing, Watson, I'm certain- oops."

"Here. I don't think it's broken-"

"It's fine. I'll just hold it like this."

"Look, Holmes. Here they come!"

"Well, go on, Watson."

"I'll help you first. No, Holmes, tie that in a knot."

"Can't you tie it?"

"Here, give it to me. No, don't stab there!"

"Well, where would you have me do it, then?"

"Watch, Holmes, like this."

"Watson, I hardly think I have the stomach for this sort of thing."

"I'll do it, then. You can use mine, it's ready."

"How do I throw it?"

"Honestly Holmes, you must have seen it done before. Wait, let me stand back. Go ahead."

"Ah, look, I almost hit that one."

"Indeed."

"…Watson. Nothing's happening."

"Have some patience."

"Watson, my mind-"

"Rebels at stagnation, I know. Holmes, I do believe you broke it."

"Surely not?"

"What a shame. My best one, at that."

"I'll get you a new one. Watson, they are not catching whatsoever."

"My dear Holmes. You've broken my pole, you can't bait a line to save your life, and your patience is quite limited. I don't think you're cut out for fishing."

"It appears so."

* * *

Anybody completely lost? I was trying to be dubious, but I hope it's not too hard to follow. I don't know if this is canon, but there was an episode of Granada (which one?) where Watson is fishing in the beginning.


	15. Adventure

"Is it really necessary to start every title with 'The Adventure of"!" Holmes spat, throwing down a copy of the _Strand_ onto his desk. I looked up from the article I was reading about shattered wrist bones, and their projectiles to see him gazing testily at me.

I pondered his inquiry for a moment. "Is it not fitting?"

He threw up his hands in exasperation. "No, it is not _fitting_! You write my cases as if they are fairy tales! They are scientific analysis', and should be treated so!"

It was not odd for Holmes to criticize my writing, so I merely raised my eyebrows and returned back to my medical journal. Holmes was prone to black moods, especially without a case to think about. He hadn't had one in weeks.

"If it bothers you so, Holmes, why do you not write your own accounts?"

He looked scandalized. "I will most certainly not! Why would I waste my time on something so frivolous? That is your job, is it not, to chronicle these things? If you will remember, I was opposed from the beginning to the very idea of _anyone_ writing them. No doubt every criminal in London has now read your accounts and learnt my methods! Or perhaps not; they are so florid that I doubt even I could recognize my own case!"

Even I had limits to my patience, and, though I knew I should not be, I was a little offended by his outburst.

"If you feel that way, Holmes, I will stop publishing accounts. You've no use for me anymore, no doubt. I shall look for new lodgings in the morning."

I had stood up and started towards the door, under the premise of retiring for the night. I was not serious about looking for new lodgings in the morning. I could not bear to leave over such a trifling matter. My little retaliation was certainly uncalled for, and I should apologize, so I turned to do so.

I was met with a very singular sight. Sherlock Holmes, white faced, and looking _regretful_. I was so surprise that I completely forgot about my apology, and stood rooted to the spot in the doorframe.

He raced over to intercept me. "My dear Watson," he began. "I beg you to reconsider*. I am forever in your debt for your accounts, romantic as they are. I doubt I should ever have reached my current position without them."

If it was any other man, I should have said he looked scared. I nearly laughed at the sight.

"I shall stay, Holmes. It was uncalled for of me. I wouldn't have left anyway, old fellow. I am much too partial to these rooms."

He gave one of his short bursts of laughter, and the unemotional mask returned. I returned to my desk, and he his. I saw his mouth twitch in a semblance of a smile.

"Mrs. Hudson would have been glad." He said. "It would've been an easy excuse to get rid of me."

"I daresay she's had enough excuses to get rid of you already."

* * *

A/N: You guys deserve two today, since I was gone for three days. But perhaps you'll get the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic I'm working on instead.

*I'm certain I've read this line in a fic somewhere. Well, it stuck in my mind. I'm sorry to whomever I'm pirating. If anyone knows, I'll certainly give the rightful owner credit, or remove it if you'd like.


	16. Armchairs

A/N: Between my other story, my newly acquired deviantart account, and that my teachers have seen fit dump a truckload of homework on us the day we return from spring break, updates for this story will probably be somewhat sparse for a little while.

I had been very polite and sacrificing throughout the whole moving in process, and therefore thought I deserved to at least claim _one_ thing without asking. My eye was on the armchair nearest to my desk, and I quickly dropped into it, without making eye contact with Mr. Holmes. It was not perhaps the most gentlemanly thing to do, but Holmes had been doing the same sort of thing all afternoon when we were dividing up the sitting room. Thankfully, he seemed not to notice, and only plopped into the armchair across from me.

I was partial to this particular chair not only because it was closer to my desk, but also because it was not quite as deep as the other one. My health was still in a rather pitiful state between my shoulder and leg, and it would be horribly embarrassing if I were to have to moan and groan every time I got up.

It seemed an inconsequential decision at the time, but the identification of our armchairs has become an unchangeable habit with time. I cannot imagine it being any other way. I have sat in Holmes' chair once before, when mine was being re-upholstered (the results of a volatile chemical experiment Holmes had conducted). He had offered me his own chair in means of apology for temporarily destroying mine, but I soon had to relinquish the spot. It not only smelled strongly of tobacco, but the whole feeling was wrong.

Several times a client has sat in either Holmes' or my chair during the consultation. On occasions such as these the one with his chair still open refrains from sitting in it because it's a bit odd to sit in a familiar armchair with an unfamiliar face across from you. We both end up standing or seated on the settee. It takes the right armchairs and the right occupants to create that certain feeling of contentment.


	17. A Good Right Cross

"I think, Watson, that it may be a late night for me. I am preparing to start a chemical experiment that may change science forever."

I was too engaged in my novel to pay much attention to Holmes. "Mmm." I answered. We were having a nice, quiet evening, and I was very much enjoying it.

" If I can find the correct reactionary to sodium bicarbonate, I can set off a series of- erm, never mind, Watson, I actually feel rather tired. I'll retire to my room now."

These last few words were rushed off at such a speed that I barely caught them. I had looked up at Holmes' abrupt change in tone to see him looking at something out the window. He fled to his room and slammed the door closed.

"Holmes?" I called, very confused. He was certainly not tired- it was barely dark, and Holmes didn't particularly like sleep, anyway.

"I'm sleeping Watson, please do not disturb me!" came the frantic reply. I rose from my chair, intent on figuring out what was going on. Before I could take a step, the sitting room door flew open and a massive bearded man burst in.

"Sherlock Holmes!" He yelled, his face flushed with anger.

His eyes scanned the sitting room and rested upon me.

"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He questioned, drawing nearer to me. I was quick to make amends, for I did not like the look on his face.

"No, no. I am Dr. John Watson."

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm afraid he's asleep. If you come back in the morning-"

The behemoth had seen me glance towards Holmes' bedroom door and was now making his way over to it with his fists clenched. I rushed around the settee to intercept him.

"Now, look here, sir-" I started, but the man merely pushed me away with one hand. He had his hand on the doorknob when I knocked him flat with a right cross to the chin.

He landed with a thud onto the floor and didn't move. For such a large man, it didn't take much to render him unconscious.

Within seconds of the loud crash, Holmes came bursting out his door.

"Watson!" He looked around the room frantically, and then saw me standing over the considerably larger man on the floor. "Dear Lord, Watson, did you do that?"

I nodded, a little surprised myself. "What in the world did you do to him, Holmes?"

He grimaced. "I had to pretend to seduce his wife for a case. I am not exactly sure how he found me."

"Our address is not exactly a secret."

"Indeed. Was it only one punch?"

"A good right cross."

"Do remind me not to challenge you in boxing, Watson."

* * *

A/N: I thought we needed some action. Unfortunately, I've got a heck of a sore throat today. Fortunately, that means I've got a whole day to write and read and watch Sherlock Holmes, and not go to school.


	18. Breathing

A/N: A short little one- wait- a droubble. I'm still chipper over learning these names- it's like a secret code or something.

My best friend, whom I have deemed the Holmes in our relationship, and who does the same thing to me all the time, inspired this. Also was most probably influenced by KCS' fic 'Can You Hear Me Now?'.

* * *

We made good use of the telephones the years Holmes was in Sussex and I in London. It was more convenient than a letter or telegram, and more personal as well. It is hard to fit much emotion into a briefly worded message with 'STOP' inserted every few words.

Holmes would often call, only to tell me to be quiet moments later. We would sit in companionable silence for hours, saying only a few words. I dare say my maid thought it odd.

"Watson, stop that infernally loud breathing. I am trying to think"

"Why don't you take the telephone away from your ear?"

"Just stop breathing so loudly."

I obliged, as always, because I would gladly accept my friend's presence in whatever form it came in as of late. We did not actually_ see_ each other much presently, despite however many hours we spent on the 'phone. I was glad to just sit and listen to him think at the moment.

I should think he felt the same, as he would not remove the earpiece.


	19. Home

Switzerland was dangerous. I could never be sure of myself. I had to watch my back constantly.

Germany was brief. I sent the revealing telegram to Mycroft.

Hungary was thoughtful. I continued at a slower pace, and I could relax a bit. Unfortunately, this meant I had more time to remember, and think.

Poland was guilt. Mycroft had sent a telegram detailing how Watson was taking it all.

Turkey was detached. I tried to forget everything about my old life.

Persia was nostalgic. Every time I looked at anyone's feet, I was reminded most painfully of home.

Tibet was strangely calm. I learned to detach my mind even further, but there was always a niggling presence in the back of my mind.

India was grief. Mycroft had send me word of Mrs. Watson' death.

Arabia was worry. With both her and I gone, he would be despondent indeed.

Italy was concern. Mycroft sent more news, and I dearly hoped Watson would wait just a while longer.

France was surprise- that Moran had finally slipped up. It was a coincidence, but convenient all the same.

England- glorious, rainy, long-awaited England- was home.

* * *

A/N: Two in one night! Wit-chow! (That was an excited karate move).


	20. Lesson And a challenge!

CHALLENGE (because I've no idea where else to put it): After watching the Granada version of 3GAB and reading Pompey's 'A Destroyer of Men', I've a request/ challenge for anyone who's interested. I'd like to hear your take on the episode (particularly the burglary, fight, and/or aftermath), be it a novelization, elaboration, or AU.

* * *

Thought my deepest loyalties lie with Holmes, I do, in fact, have other friendships. Despite my best efforts, they tend to pale in comparison to mine with Holmes. Still, I find it enjoyable to play billiards with Thurston at the club or meet an old friend for luncheon every so often. These little outings have proven to be a welcome reprieve at times. Holmes can be a perfectly dreadful companion when he sees fit.

Despite my outwardly all-around-amiable nature, I too become annoyed or even exasperated with people if they are abominable enough. One such abominable person was Edwin Gallagher, a garrulous man with a large nose. I had made his acquaintance at my club and was not particularly fond of him. To my dismay, the man veritably latched himself onto me. I had received twelve wires in the past week imploring me to meet him for dinner, and as I'd finally run out of excuses, I had to concede and agree to meet him at _Blanchard's_ tonight.

I was certainly not looking forward to the appointment, and said as much to Holmes before I left. He uttered something to the effect of "that's what you get for being friendly.".

I met Gallagher and suffered through nearly two hours of the chap's miserable company before Providence intervened on my behalf. The waiter approached me with an "urgent message". I opened it up and had to stifle an impulsive laugh. There was no urgent message, but only several scrawled stick figures with their limbs in various positions.

I quickly fabricated an excuse to Gallagher about how there was a terrible cart accident a few blocks down, and I would have to go and attend to it. I was even more quickly refused his offers to wait for me at the restaurant or even follow me to the scene of the accident.

I still remembered what most of the dancing men stood for, and was able to make out 'Across the street' from the message. Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes was leaning on a lamppost across the way when I left the restaurant.

"Thank you, Holmes. I don't believe I could have stood another moment in that fellows company," I said when I reached him.

"Isolation does have its merits, yes." He answered.

We walked back towards Baker Street together, and I perceived that companionship had its merits as well.

"Why did you wait so long? Surely you could have send a note earlier, and relieved me of my suffering?'

He gave a shout of laughter before turning somber again.

"I was teaching you a lesson."


	21. Back CHAS 221b 1

A/N: Because I didn't have any fresh ideas, I decided to borrow a bit more from our wonderful ACD. So, in the spirit of CHAS, here's my first 221b. I think this'll probably be a series.

* * *

We sped across the lawn, with our pursuers hot on our trails. I could hear the baying of the hounds; see the flashlights searching across the grass, smell the sweat forming on my brow. My heart was threatening to burst through my chest, but all anxiety was soon replaced by the adrenaline of the chase.

Holmes charged ahead of me in long strides. I struggled to keep up. My leg protesting very loudly the pounding steps I was taking. I could do nothing but ignore it now, with all members of the household after us. I would not allow myself to ruin Holmes' career by being caught.

A wall came into view. We were so very close. My chest swelled with the promise of escape, but I pushed it back down. It would not do to lose focus now.

The wall was suddenly very close, and I saw Holmes vault up it and haul himself over. I jumped up as well, and began to swing over to the other side. I was nearly over when my breath hitched in my throat and a hand clenched onto my ankle.

I kicked hard, hoping to shake of my attacker. I hit something fleshy and hard, and heard a sickening crack, but the grip stayed tight; and as he fell he pulled me back.


	22. Blurring CHAS 2

Wow...So I wrote this and uploaded it to my document manager yesterday and everything...but I forgot to publish it. *is sheepish* Oops. Sorry to keep you guys waiting.

A/N: My, my, you all are like a ravenous pack of rabid wolves when I give you a cliffie…

* * *

I landed hard on my back. A little huff of air escaped my lips and my head crashed into the grass. I heard my assailant grunt next to me as he too landed flat on his back.

Dazed as I was, I rolled over and stumbled to my feet, scrambling away as fast as I could. My rubber-soled tennis shoes couldn't find a hold o the slick grass, and I slipped several times before breaking into a run. I heard the burly man clamber up and begin to pursue me, and quickened my pace.

In an instant I was tackled to the ground again. Moist dirt and grass smudged my face. I jerked my elbow back and yet again came in contact with the poor fellow's already bloodied nose. He cried out in pain but did not release me, instead bludgeoning me over the head with something heavy and very hard.

For the third time in as many minutes, my head met the ground. I remember thinking in my addled state that the grass and I were getting very well acquainted.

I lashed out- if I could only impair this one man…

I rolled over to face the ground and clutched the silk mask to my face, desperate not to be recognized, but my grip was weakening and my vision blurring.

* * *

A/N: wait, that wasn't another cliffhanger, was it?


	23. Behind CHAS 3

A/N: We're in Holmes' POV now. Continuing on with the CHAS theme- we will be for a while...

* * *

It seemed we had probably shaken off our pursuers quite effectively by climbing the wall, but I kept running regardless. The more distance there was between Milverton's liar and us, the better.

What a singular coincidence that we should try to destroy his papers the very night he was avenged by a wronged woman. This one would have been a pretty case for Watson's _Strand _stories, if only we could allow it to be published. But alas, we could not for fear of being arrested, or possibly exposing the lady who had killed Milverton.

I judged we had gone far enough, but turned to ask Watson his view on the matter. What I saw, or perhaps the lack of what I saw, made my breath hitch in my throat and a bubble of anxiety rise in my throat.

I turned on my heels and sprinted full speed back to the manor, teeming as it was with searching servants. I had a just and important reason to return. The anxiety bubble swelled larger as my over active imagination conjured all sorts of possibilities as to what had happened to him. Was I that unobservant that I hadn't even noticed he was gone until now? How long had he been gone?

When I had looked back, Watson had no longer been following behind.


	24. Bring CHAS 4

I climbed back over the wall in a different spot than I had when fleeing. It was closer to the edge of the property. The lights and voices of the searchers were distant but still rather too clear for my liking.

Watson was nowhere in sight. If I could get to him quickly enough, we just might have time to escape without losing our liberty, or perhaps even our lives.

What a terrible mistake this had become- Watson had warned me against it, yet I still allowed him to accompany me, against my instincts. I would never forgive myself if his reputation and freedom were taken from him on my account.

I lurked forward intently, but was forced to crouch and keep to the shadows for fear of being seen. How I wanted to run about the place and yell and search in every nook and cranny until I found my faithful biographer and we were safely back in Baker Street..

I waited behind a row of hedges while a servant hurried by on his search. Confound it, they had the dogs out! This escapade was really turning for the worse.

My attention was arrested suddenly and completely as a gunshot rang out. Unlike the silk masks and the rubber-soled tennis shoes, I had not found Watson's revolver necessary to bring.

A/N: Don't worry, I'll have another for you very soon- tonight.


	25. Blood CHAS 5

A/N: back to friend Watson now.

* * *

As disoriented as I was, I could only imagine my opponent was feeling much the same after I had struck his nose twice. I attribute his failure to effectively invalidate to his own pain and confusion.

I rolled over, mostly out of instinct, and just barely escaped the blunt object crushing my head again. I scrambled to my feet rather slowly and took off as fast as my weakened equilibrium would allow.

I had not run even a few meters before I heard my attacker following. His pounding footsteps spurred me on, though I felt I was running in a somewhat zigzag manner.

I made for the wall, hoping that the sounds of our scuffle would not attract more members of the household. I'd more than I could handle with just the one.

I was in mid-step when simultaneously the back of my ankle felt as if it was torn in half and the sharp sound of a gunshot reached my ears. I staggered a few steps, gasping in pain, then collapsed into a bush.

The twigs and leaves that pricked me as I crashed into the hedge were nothing compare to the searing pain coming from the back of my foot. I instinctively reached for the offending area. When I drew my hands back, they were red with blood.

* * *

A/N: I usually subscribe to the theory that Watson injured his leg and his shoulder as a soldier, despite the lack of mention of this wound in STUD.

But I was reading my Baring-Gould the other day, and came across the notes on Watson's wounds, and they presented several theories on how the leg wound came about. So it got me thinking…

The leg wound was first mentioned in SIGN, which we can say with fair certainty was set in1888, but we hear neither hide nor hair of it before this. It's not preposterous to suggest that Watson acquired this wound _after_ being discharged from the army. We know that it is not odd for Holmes' cases to possess a certain quality of danger. Baring-Gould puts it better than I can "Holmes' solicitude for Watson at the time of the adventure of _The Sign of Four_ suggests that Watson suffered his second wound while assisting Holmes on a case (compare Holmes' reaction to the wound received by Watson in 1902 during 'The Adventure of the Three Garridebs')".

Now, CHAS dates vary greatly from what I've seen. There are no specific mentions of the year. Chronologists have to base their dates on trifles. I've seen dates ranging from 1886 to 1891. It is possible, then, that CHAS was before SIGN, and therefore, Watson received this leg wound in CHAS. Whew.


	26. Broken CHAS 6

Well, I was _going _to post this tomorrow- but after tomato gun threats and narrowed eyes, I think I'll post it now, and not induce your rage...

A/N: I'm as eager as you are to find out what happens. Back to Holmes now.

* * *

I had stood, motionless for two excruciatingly long moments after the shot was fired. Several strings of terrible, horrific thoughts ran through my mind at lightning speed. But just as quickly as I had stopped, I was off in a dead run to where I judged the shot had come from.

I could tell that I was not the only one making their way towards the sound, for I heard raised voices and shouted commands and saw the lantern lights flicker as they were jostled during the run.

This information was all peripheral. I was focused on finding Watson, who I was sure was involved with the shot. The question now only laid in who had fired it. I hoped to high heaven that it was Watson, not whatever opponent he faced. Any other explanation sent my heart into a flurried frenzy and my mind into a foggy terror.

I flew around a corner and caught sight of a hunched over figure. I backpedaled quickly and crouched beside a tree and observed. Thankfully, the fellow did not seem to notice me, despite my hurried and somewhat obvious entrance.

It was not Watson, that much I could tell easily. But he had certainly been in contact with my friend lately, for he sported a nose that was rather badly bloodied and broken.

* * *

A/N: Look at all those ending b's. It's a 221bbb!


	27. Bush CHAS 7

A/N: Apparently my weekend looks to be just as busy as my week. I'm going to be at a musical thing most of tomorrow, and then I'm going out of town (and out of wireless range) until Sunday night. I'm afraid I won't be able to post until then, but hopefully it'll be a big update.

* * *

I had thought I would observe this man with the broken nose to see if I could obtain any clue as to where Watson was. However, I found that my plans were changed abruptly very soon.

The man stumbled over to a hedge, which, all too late, I saw had been recently disturbed. I tensed.

He bent over and groped about in the undergrowth. I heard sounds of a slight scuffle, but the broken nose man straightened up and emerged from the hedge dragging the struggling figure of my friend. Watson tried in vain to free himself, but the man silenced him by striking a glancing blow to Watson's head. His figure went limp.

I leaped forward and was on the man in an instant, clipping him on the jaw and throwing him to the ground. It was quick work to disarm him and render him unconscious with the butt of his own pistol. I had no qualms about hitting the man solidly over the head, for an unexpected bout of anger had seized me.

I dragged him out of the immediate pathway and scanned the dark lawn to ensure the struggle had not been spotted. The searchlights and voices were still coming this way, drawn to us by the gunshot of earlier. I deposited the man behind a nearby bush.


	28. Back CHAS 8

My attention was diverted and anger suppressed when I perceived my friend lying the ground a few feet away. I rushed over to inspect the damage.

The light and environment did not lend themselves to a thorough or condonable inspection, but with my combined eyesight and touch I was able to get the gist of things. He was overall the worse for wear, but his ankle was the worst visible injury. It was smothered in a sickening amount of blood. I ran a hand over it and felt the warm blood, eliciting a small moan of pain from Watson.

He opened his eyes, which had been squeezed tightly shut until then, and a look of immense relief passed over his face when he saw me.

I wordlessly helped him up, wrapping his arm around my shoulder to take weight off of the injured leg. The voices and lights were getting far too close.

Watson hobbled along bravely beside me, but I knew he could not keep this up much longer. He inhaled sharply at every other step he took, and leaned heavily on me.

My fears that he would not hold up much longer were confirmed as soon as we were out of danger. If it were not for my protective grip on his shoulders, he'd be flat on his back.


	29. Bandage CHAS 9

As soon as I thought we'd effectively thrown of our pursuers (by crouching behind a pile of lumber), I set Watson down on the ground, where he stayed in a sitting position but grasped his calf tightly and clenched his teeth.

I didn't ask if he was all right, because I could see was most certainly not. I still needed to verify how badly he was hurt, however.

"Are you in much pain?" I whispered.

"A considerable…amount" He grunted, examining the offending area. I noticed his speech was a bit slurred, but I couldn't be sure if it was from the pain or from a previous injury.

"We should stop the bleeding," he mumbled, and started to remove his coat.

"I have it, old boy." I interjected, removing my coat, then my jacket. I tore of a sleeve then looked at Watson.

"A tourniquet or a bandage?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure a tourniquet'll do. I'm afraid it may have grazed the Achilles tendon…" He trailed off, blinking slowly.

"Watson," I prompted, and he came out of his reverie.

"Sorry, Holmes, I took a little bump on the head earlier- I'm just a bit muddled" he added, seeing my disconcerted gaze. He took another look at the blood.

"I don't think a tourniquet will do. Better be a bandage."

* * *

A/N: "….a half pay officer with a **damaged **_**tendo Achillis**_"- SIGN

All right, I've got at least two more to post tonight.


	30. Bail CHAS 10

I wrapped his ankle up as best I could, under his admittedly bleary instruction. The blood, though still dampening my jacket sleeve, had slowed considerably.

Our worries were still very much present, for the lawn was now teeming with searchers. It would take a goodly amount of luck to escape. There were also Watson's injuries to account for. Though he insisted that he could walk on his ankle "perfectly fine", I was not convinced; nor was I entirely convinced he did _not _have a concussion. A frantic sprint from here to the wall would do him no good. We needed a good plan, but for the life of me I could not think of one.

"Watson" I began, glancing towards him. He was leaning back on the wood, eyes close. "Do you think he got a good look at you?"

"Don't think so… I still had my mask on. It was too dark to be able to see anything well anyway."

Good. Perhaps then, I could still get Watson out of here. If I turned myself in, he might have a chance to get away. There would be the inevitable charge of murder, the trial the ruin of the Great Sherlock Holmes, and even brother Mycroft, who on occasion _was_ the British government, would not be able to conceive a bail.

* * *

A/N: So the other day I noticed that my math textbook has the editors' names printed on the front cover. One of them is Boswell. I enjoy opening my math book now.


	31. Both CHAS 11

It was doubtful that they had observed that there were two of us, and if they had, I would think of something. If I was going to be found out, I wouldn't drag Watson with me, any further than I already had. And I couldn't tell them the truth- they would undoubtedly arrest the avenging lady, who did not deserve to suffer more than she already had.

Watson would have some trouble getting away alone on his ankle- oh, how I loathed the idea of leaving him to hobble across the city in such a state- but he would have to do. I'd no doubts he was capable of it. He'd survived Maiwand, after all.

"Look here, Watson, you'll have to go it alone from here on."

He opened his eyes in surprise. "What do you mean…" his face lit up in realization. "Oh, no, Holmes. I swear, I'll not move from this spot. I'll yell at the top of my lungs and bring them right over." He glared at me intently, and I was once again impressed by the man's infallible mettle and devotion. It was the second time this case, I mused, that he had threatened me upon my not including him in my plans.

"All right, Watson. I hope the cell will be big enough for us both."

* * *

A/N: Amusing little thing pointed out in Baring-Gould's Complete Annotated SH: There's a quote in STUD, when the duo are eating breakfast, "...while my companion munched silently on his toast." Baring-Gould says, in a side note, "How Holmes accomplished this minor miracle is not known."

Well, I thought it was funny.


	32. Brighter CHAS 12

"We're going to have to make a break for the far wall. They're all still searching over by where I jumped. We'll still have to stay low and make it quick."

Watson nodded. He extended his hand towards me. I grabbed it and pulled him up into a standing position with my hand bracing his arm. He grimaced but kept upright.

"Put your arm-" I slipped it around my shoulders, "here."

He acquiesced, though with a worried expression. I took another glance at the not so distant lanterns.

"Now, Watson."

We started off at a half run, Watson hobbling along as best he could and I taking as much of the weight from his injured ankle as I could.

He gasped quietly when the ankle was jostled on a protruding tree root, but continued stolidly on. We reached the wall not a moment too soon. The lights were steadily growing closer, and voices rising.

"I'll give you a boost."

With a tremendous effort, he jumped and caught the top of the wall, and I pushed him over. I saw him roll over the top and heard him land with a thump.

The lanterns were getting brighter.

* * *

A/N: This is going on rather longer than I thought, but that's okay with me, and you all seem to be mildly enjoying it.

Hey- I got 221 words on my first try. Whoohoo!


	33. Badly CHAS 13

I pulled myself over the wall and jumped down, stumbling a bit on the landing. Watson was sitting up a few yards away, clutching at his injured ankle. I frowned- no doubt the impromptu sprint had done it no good. But there was nothing for it; we would have to continue on, away from the house, until we could find a cab.

I hauled Watson up once more after a brief inquiry to his health, which he dismissed brusquely. We hurried along- half the household was ambling just behind that wall. I didn't think they were following us, but I wasn't taking any chances.

We made it to the road, at which point we were both so utterly spent and disheveled that both of us plopped down heavily on the curb.

To my amazement, and great fortune, a hansom sauntered around the corner an instant later. I leaped up and flagged it down. The driver looked at us dubiously at first, but when I informed him fiercely that I'd an injured man who needed immediate medical attention, he hopped down readily enough and helped me get Watson into the cab.

The cabbie opened his mouth to comment, but closed it after the vehement glare I sent him. I was terribly disgruntled. The night, to my disgust, had turned out very badly.

* * *

A/N: Did you know there was a guy named Charles Augustus Murray? Woah… too many character names!


	34. Brother CHAS 14

I began to give the driver directions for the nearest hospital, but stopped short. That wouldn't do- questions would inevitably be asked, and the police might be dragged into the affair. That was out of the question after all that we had sacrificed to escape unnoticed by the searchers.

The idea of Baker Street, too, was quickly dismissed. Though the notion of returning to our rooms was comforting, Watson needed medical help as soon as possible, and no doctor would be up and about at this time of night, much less one that would not be suspicious.

I pondered over the conundrum for a few moments, until the cabbie shouted down impatiently for the address; and I spat one back at him.

I got up into the cab, where Watson was slouched down deep into the seat. I endeavored to hoist him into an upright position, but he groaned and mumbled wearily about his head. Blast it all, I'd nearly forgotten about his head.

I gathered him up and leaned him onto my side, putting an arm around his shoulder so the cab wouldn't jostle him about. He remained silent the rest of the ride.

I silently urged the cab driver on, and hoped that the presence of my injured friend would somewhat suppress the sleepy wrath of my older brother.

* * *

A/N: Ah, it seems that we'll be seeing dear Mycroft soon.


	35. Busy CHAS 15

A/N: Now, technically, the timeline I'm using says that Mycroft and Watson haven't met when this takes place, because The Greek Interpreter hasn't happened yet. But let's pretend, and just say that they are still very new to each other. Wilkins, by the way, is KCS'. I'm only borrowing him.

* * *

The cab driver sped away as soon as our feet touched the pavement, but I paid him no regard. I had more pressing worries. Most importantly, the limp figure hanging off my side.

He was fairly lucid, and doing his best to walk, though it was admittedly not much more than a stumbling gait.

Mycroft's house was nearly _in_ the street, thankfully. We had but to stagger up the steps and bang upon the gigantic double doors. The banging was not a task I looked forward to. My brother was grumpy when I visited him in daylight, he would be a veritable monster when awakened spontaneously in the middle of the night. Colossus followed a strict and patterned schedule each and every day. I usually enjoyed irritating him by showing up impromptu, but at the present I had no time for his crotchety ways

To my surprise, the door was opened promptly upon my knock by a disheveled and slightly frightened looking young fellow; whom I recognized as Mycroft's secretary. His name- it started with a W, I was sure- Walton or something of the sort.

"Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed, seeing me supporting Watson. He was about to blither on, before a tremendous shout found it's way downstairs. There was the mammoth himself.

"Wilkins, whomever it is, inform them I'm busy!"


	36. Blazes CHAS 16

I butted my way into the house past the bewildered secretary, dragging Watson with me.

"Mycroft!" I shouted up the stairs, no doubt wakening the entire household as I did. No matter, it looked as if they were already up anyway, though I hadn't the faintest clue why.

The secretary- what was his name, Wilkins- caught up to us in the hallway and scurried about, whispering remonstrances.

"I implore you, sir, _please_ keep your voice down!"

He seemed to know who I was, at any rate, though I doubt we could have met more than a few times. Mycroft scared off most of the employees so quickly that I rarely took the time to memorize their names- the staff was continually changing.

Watson, who had been standing independently since we had entered the house, beside my hand laid protectively on his arm, wavered suddenly and nearly fell.

Both Wilkins and I started towards him, I catching him under one arm and Wilkins the other. Watson was still conscious, though hardly so, and gave a little groan. I noticed that the wound on his ankle had started bleeding again and swore under my breath.

Thunderous steps sounded on the staircase, and soon Mycroft came into view on the landing.

"Sherlock!" He began, eyes widening at the scene before him. "What in blazes?"


	37. Blackmail CHAS 17

A/N: Mycroft POV. Hopefully more later tonight.

* * *

I'd long pondered over the conundrum of Sherlock's flat mate. Why anyone would willingly share fellows with my erratic brother was beyond me. He had been insufferable as a child; I could not imagine what he must be like to live with now.

From what I'd read, Dr. Watson was incredibly loyal to Sherlock, and Sherlock terribly distant to him. Seeing them in person was another story; my brother was clearly fond of him, more so than I'd seen him be of anyone.

It was a strange scene laid before me. My secretary, looking thoroughly harassed, was holding up one side of the poor doctor, and Sherlock, with an anxious and angry face, was holding the other.

Dr. Watson looked properly peaked. I noticed a bloodstained jacket wrapped around his lower leg.

I muttered some exclamation upon seeing the whole affair. They all snapped their heads (the doctor somewhat slower than the other two) in my direction.

Sherlock locked eyes with me, looking more scared than I'd seen in a long while.

"Hurry," He uttered. I descended as quickly as my girth would allow, and took Wilkins' side.

"Wilkins, go prepare the sitting room," I ordered.

He ran off after a wide-eyed acquiescence. I turned to Sherlock. "What happened?"

He swallowed and regained his composure. "What do you know abut blackmail?"


	38. Brandy CHAS 18

Sherlock detailed the happenings of their evening briefly, and a little stiffly.

Milverton, of course, had always been beyond the official government's reach. He'd always slipped around the grip of the law, leaving us disapproving but helpless.

Sherlock explained Milverton's death vehemently,with seemingly no regrets. More than once I saw him glance at the doctor; it was not difficult to deduce his thoughts.

He had explained all this to me as we half-carried, half-dragged Dr. Watson up the stairs. He made some feeble attempts to climb them on his own, but we quite took over the process and Sherlock protested fiercely against any movements on the doctor's part.

We soon got him into my sitting room, where Wilkins had cleared off the sofa and was hurriedly cleaning the rest of the room.

"Good heavens, Mycroft, what have you been doing?" Sherlock exclaimed upon seeing the mess.

"We've been trying to clear up some pressing foreign matters by morning." I explained, though the brief explanation hardly did the matter justice.

Sherlock took sole control over the doctor and guided him to the sofa. He collapsed on it in a heap, looking pale and strained.

I approached Wilkins, giving him orders to fix coffee, for it looked to be a long night.

Sherlock, I gave a large glass of brandy.


	39. Breathed CHAS 19

He accepted it with a uncharacteristically shaky hand and downed it in a few instants.

"What are the extents of his injuries?" I asked Sherlock.

"He's been clipped by a bullet in his ankle, and lost a considerable amount of blood. I think he may have a concussion- he won't tell me."

"What do you mean he won't tell you?" I scoffed.

"I don't." The doctor piped up, in the most resilient voice he could muster.

"You're not fit to judge that." Sherlock growled.

"I _am_ a doctor, Holmes."

"And an exceedingly stubborn one."

I coughed rather loudly to get their attention. They could certainly bicker when they went at it.

"Sherlock, will you go fetch some fresh bandages? These look less then ample."

Sherlock went to fetch the bandages, and I moved in to see if I could identify a concussion. I had some limited medical experience from my younger days.

He seemed fairly lucid, at least enough to argue with my brother. Pupils were responding to light well, albeit somewhat slowly. The only sign was an angry purple bruise forming on the side of his forehead.

"I think, Doctor, that it is not too bad."

"I heartily concur."

"We shall still have to fix your ankle."

His face fell at the mention of it.

"That's another matter," he breathed.


	40. Behind CHAS 20

A/N: I'm going to finish this all up in one big chapter, instead of killing you with cliffies and disconnected drabbles. Anyway, this way it comes out at an even 20 chapters for this arc. Thanks for the suggestion, Isis.

Still Mycroft POV.

* * *

"I haven't seen it in the light." He gulped. "I don't know-" he broke off. "Can you remove the bandage?"

I began wordlessly. The doctor looked terrified out of his wits. I had read, of course, of his shoulder injury, but Sherlock had detailed to me the amount of frustration it actually caused him. It was more debilitating than he let on. I do not think he was keen to have another injury of that caliber.

The doctor hissed with pain as I removed the blood-soaked jacket, revealing the bloody mess that must have been his ankle.

Sherlock chose this unfortunate time to return with the bandages, and upon seeing the injury, deposited the bandages on the floor beside the door and hurried over. He stood over the doctor, wringing his hands.

"Dr. Watson," I began, gazing at the affected area. "Do you require morphine?"

He shook his head, staring at the ankle with a frightened look.

"May I have some water and a towel?" He fairly whispered.

I hastened off to retrieve the items, only too glad to be away from the tension and emotion I could tell was growing in the room.

I returned to find Sherlock seated on the edge of the couch with his eyes closed and the doctor still staring at the injury.

I cleared my throat, and Sherlock's eyes flew open. "Here you are, doctor."

"Thank you." He uttered.

The doctor began to clean the blood off. I consider myself a strong-stomached man, but the sight of the mangled flesh nearly made me turn away, and I certainly had a feeling of nausea.

Sherlock was transfixed on the doctor's movements, with the same frightened sort of look in his eyes that I had seen in the doctor's earlier. Dr. Watson had lost the fearful look; it was replaced with one of determination.

"The bullet didn't lodge, thank God." He said in a low voice. "But it's grazed the Achilles tendon."

Sherlock made a strange sort of strangled coughing sound.

"I don't think," The doctor breathed. "That the damage will be permanent. With any luck, I'll still be able to walk."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, and I found I was doing the same. Strange how a man I barely knew could have such an affect on me.

Wilkins came in with the coffee at that exact moment. He must've felt a bit of all the tension; for he stiffened up the instant he entered the room.

"Come in, Wilkins," I called, and he relaxed a bit. I poured out several cups of coffee, handing one to Sherlock, who in turn held it out to the doctor.

Dr. Watson reached to take hold of it, but his hand wavered and he brought the other to rest over his eyes. He swooned suddenly and fell back on the bed.

Sherlock was up and at his side in an instant.

"Watson!" He cried, shaking the man by the shoulder. The doctor, to my immense relief, raised his hand and waved him off.

"I'm all right, Holmes," he croaked. "I'm just extremely…tired."

Sherlock did not look convinced, but relaxed nonetheless. He snatched up the bandages from the doorway and began to wrap up the doctor's ankle. Dr. Watson's features scrunched up, but he stayed silent throughout the entire process.

Sherlock gathered up every blanket he could find in the room and laid them over the doctor, who must've been asleep by then. He took one last look at the doctor, and then approached me.

"Mycroft," He started. "Thank you."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

"We shall have to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible. I'm afraid we'll have to go back tonight; there's too much of a risk staying here. We must avoid all suspicion. But I don't know if it's safe to move him."

"_Jacta alea est *_, Sherlock. We'll use my carriage. He'll be fine."

My brother exhaled deeply. I could see this affair troubled him more than he cared to admit.

"All right." Sherlock murmured. He wrapped his arms around himself and walked over to the couch. The doctor opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock, apparently not asleep after all.

"Ready, Watson?"

"Always,"

Sherlock inclined his chin and blinked.

"Then let's return to Baker Street and leave this horrible business behind."

* * *

A/N: Funny thing. This actually turned out as a 721b. And 'behind' was the b word I used for the first drabble in this arc. Far out.

We all know what happens next. Lestrade comes to Baker St., describes Watson; Holmes makes a joke, etc. Watson does recover well. By SIGN, in 1888, he's able to make a 'six-mile trudge' with Toby, and there are later adventures where a good amount of legwork is required. So he's obviously not too bad off.

I'm extremely thrilled with how much response this arc has generated. I'm glad you've all enjoyed it. Now we've yet another theory on how Watson got his leg wound.

*_Jacta alea est_- Latin, 'the die has been cast'. Perhaps not the most fitting phrase for this occasion, but I'm eager to show off the very, very little Latin I know.


	41. Merits

A/N: For Hagstrom, who requested something about rugby and Baritsu, and supplied me with a wonderful idea. I'll probably write another that has more to do with the actual _playing_ of the sport, but this'll have to do for now.

I'm always open to ideas if you have any.

It was early evening in Baker Street, in the glorious period of time that directly followed the successful conclusion of a case and preceded Holmes' dangerous black moods. Holmes and I sat in our armchairs, smoking and conversing in a very content manner. The conversation had flowed from the experiment he had done earlier in the day to his copy of Laviosier's _Traite Elementaire de Chimie*_, the volume that had inspired the experiment. Gradually we began talking about the other books on his shelf, and to the small blue book entitled 'The Art of Baritsu'.

Several times in my association with Holmes he had seen fit to mention to me that he had 'some knowledge of Baritsu', the Japanese system of wrestling. This in itself was entirely plausible, for Holmes amassed an enormous amount of out-of-the way knowledge that pertained to his profession. However, I had my doubts as to the merits of this system, and remarked so to Holmes.

"Say what you may, Holmes, I doubt it could hold up to a good old-fashioned rugby tackle."

Holmes scoffed. "On the contrary, I doubt your rugby tackle could hold up to well-refined Baritsu."

Holmes was admittedly a good fighter, but I figured he needed taking down a peg on the matter.

"Would you like to test that theory?" I asked mischievously, smirking.

Holmes sighed, though he was clearly excited. "If I must, to prove it to you."

I rose from my chair and removed my jacket. Holmes did the same, carefully setting down his pipe one the mantle. He straightened up to his full height and raised his arms in a queer way that I assumed was the starting position.

I raised an eyebrow, to which he nodded. I then charged at him, leaping into my best tackle at the opportune moment.

Holmes went down easier than I thought. He had made some attempt to stop me with a fancy Baritsu move, but my sheer momentum sent us both crashing to the floor. I rolled over and sat up. I was no longer, unfortunately, in my prime, and flying rugby tackle was probably not the best idea for either of us.

Holmes sat up behind me and rubbed his head. "Dear lord, Watson, was that you or the 5:30 to Surrey?"

I chuckled. "Welcome to rugby, Holmes."

He was rubbing the area above his right eye. "I think I'll have a nice little relic of this."

"I'm sorry, Holmes." I said, furrowing my brows. "I really shouldn't have done that quite so…"

"Efficiently?" Holmes supplied.

"Yes," I got up and extended my hand to Holmes, which he took and pulled himself to his feet.

"I should be glad to have you on my side in a fight, Watson."

"And you mine."

Holmes gave me one of his quirks of a smile, pulling his jacket back on. We settled back into our chairs quite normally, as if I hadn't just tackled him.

It certainly wasn't the oddest thing to have happened in those rooms.

*This is actually a plausible book Holmes might own, as suggested in "Sherlock Holmes: Rare Book Collector", by Miss Madeline B. Stern, and noted in the Baring-Gould Annotated, my Sherlock Holmes bible.


	42. Convalescing

A/N: During REIG- much of this is a direct excerpt from the canon.

"Help! Help! Murder!"

To hear the voice of he that I know so well cry out such words sent a thrill to my heart. I rushed madly from the room towards the hoarse, inarticulate shouting originating from below.

I dashed in, and on into the dressing room beyond. The two Cunnighams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists.

I was upon the younger in an instant, tearing him from my friend and throwing him off to the side even as Forrester and the Colonel removed the other. I nearly dealt the younger a solid blow to the jaw for his actions- how dare they, the devils! A convalescing man, as well!

I had to settle for giving the offender a malicious glare, for at that moment Holmes wobbled unsteadily to his feet, looking pale and generally exhausted.

"Arrest these men, Inspector!"

"On what charge?"

"That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!"

In the next few minutes, Holmes explained his methods and the criminals confessed, but I admit I was not listening to any of it. I had eyes only for Holmes, who, though outwardly calm and steady, I knew must be ready to keel over any moment.

It was only later that he explained that most of his weakness had been part of his ploy to catch the Cunnighams. I was, however, not pleased that our country weekend of _rest_ had turned into a dangerous case. Sherlock Holmes apparently did not concur.

"Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return, much invigorated, to Baker Street to-morrow."

A/N: I'm afraid it's a rather weak update, but I've had a busy day today; it was my birthday. Got a graphics tablet! Whoohoo!

Anyway, I wouldn't leave you without an update, weak as it is.


	43. Busy

A/N: A real and technically legit droubble. 200 words _precisely_.

* * *

I heaved a long and probably exaggerated sigh at the actions of the two men in front of me. However these fools rose to the rank of Inspector was quite beyond me, for they bumbled and fumbled worse than a drunken gorilla.

New blood at the Yard.

Gregson was intelligent enough to be tolerable, by Jove; even _Lestrade_ was condemnable for his energy. Of course, the ideal partner was always Watson, for he neither fumbled or bumbled, knew how to both stay out of the way and jump in at the correct times, and was a valuable sounding board. And he really wasn't as daft as he came off in his stories.

But Watson was sparse now, married, _and busy_. A treat to have on a case when he was available. He made an effort to be, but a wife and practice leaves a man without much time for investigative hobbies. And unfortunately, he was not available this case. On top of that, I was working with two sill wet behind the ears Inspectors, who had been following a false trail for a half an hour now and had yet to realize their mistake.

How I wish Watson were here.


	44. Handkerchief

A/N: Two in one night? I'm in a good mood!

* * *

I was endeavoring to 'clean' our rooms, though I doubt that such an insignificant word is really fitting for such a monumental task. The slovenly state they had deteriorated to in the last few weeks combined with the horrid weather and therefore forced imprisonment had finally prompted me to tidy them up a bit, though it would surely only be me, for Holmes would take no part in any sort of cleaning of the sitting room, insisting that he could find everything perfectly fine.

I had moved on from the table to under the settled, where I pulled out several unsavory objects. I took hold of a cloth-like something and gave it a tug, and then winced as it made a tearing sound. I emerged from the underside of the settee with half a handkerchief clutched in my hand.

I recognized it almost immediately as my old trusty one, the one that had gone mysteriously missing after one of Holmes' experiments many years ago. Sure enough, there was a large orange stain that I did not recall being there when I'd last seen it.  
A rush of nostalgia passed over me upon seeing it again and I smiled fondly.

"Holmes, do you remember this?" I asked, strolling over to where he was writing vigorously on his desk.

He mumbled something but looked up a few moments later. "Your handkerchief?"

"Yes, the very same one I had with me the day we met," I replied.

"And the one you used as a pillow in the Stoke Moran affair."

"The one I used to calm that hysterical lady with the stole."

Holmes gave a short bark of laughter, but then turned solemn. "The one I used to stop you from bleeding to death in the affair of the Harry Gelding."

"The stain came out rather nicely, eh?"

"I would expect no less from Mrs. Hudson."

I grinned in agreement and placed the handkerchief on the mantle next to the Persian slipper and directly above the jackknife.


	45. Bereft

I was never one to take heavily to drink; my brother had shown me the unhappy result of that. I, of course, had light liquor some evenings or a brandy to steady the nerves, however I rarely went out with the sole purpose of drinking. But, like so many other things in those three years, that changed.

Mary, my darling Mary, was gone, and the house was now totally and completely empty. It was sickening. I had suffered through the grief long enough, and it was horridly familiar. I could not take it this time, there was no one to lean on, and I was as alone as I had been when I returned from Afghanistan.

One night the house was too much for me. It started closing in one me. I was so bereft I didn't know where to go. I had nothing to look forward to, virtually nothing to live for.

I wandered outside, ambling about until the idea of a public house struck me. It was perhaps stereotypical as a place to drink away your troubles, though the effectiveness of this practice was questionable. I was beyond apathetic at that point.

I spent the evening drinking more than my fair share and turning out far the worse for it. I engaged in the somber sport of people watching, though the crowd at that particular house was fairly pathetic game. I notice a old grizzled man at a table close to me watching as well, though he seemed to have an eye for me specifically. God knows why, I imagine I was a sorry sight.

I left a bit wobbly, but managed to get into a cab and slur my address to the driver. I pressed my face to the window and looked out. The grizzled man was strolling down the sidewalk, with his shoulders set in a manner that reminded me terribly of Holmes. It was pathetic how everything I saw reminded me of him. Pathetic and sobering.

* * *

A/N: I think this is pretty sub-par, but since I was gone all weekend (out of town, got some fun anecdotes), and haven't update in a long while, I wanted to give you _something_, however sub par.


	46. Glorious, Peaceful Silence

A/N: Mycroft's POV

* * *

The very best thing about the Diogenes Club was the silence. No one to bother, irritate or pester you. Just glorious, peaceful silence. Silence was the foundation of the Club. It was the only aspect that made it unique from other clubs. I wager that I am the chief appreciator of silence and peace, having a younger brother such as Sherlock was.

Breaking the silence was a deplorable action indeed. I looked with no little disdain upon those who did. As it was, I committed the odious task myself when I received a most distressing and disconcerting wire with my afternoon paper.

MYCROFT HELP STOP DOCTOR AND I IN MOST PRECARIOUS POSITION STOP FOLLOWING CULPRITS IN HANSOM STOP DO SEND HELP RIGHT AWAY SHERLOCK STOP

I unashamedly called for a cab at the top of my voice, causing every head in the place to snap about at stare at me in shock.

It was well worth the cautionary remonstration I got, for I reached brother mine and his companion not a moment too soon.

* * *

A/N: I hadn't thought of continuing this, but it seems unfinished to leave it here. I'll leave it up to you guys- send me a review if you'd like some more.


	47. Taking Pains

A/N: A continuation and completion of the last.

* * *

Sherlock had stopped by and told me of his latest case a few days ago, so although the telegram hadn't given a location I was fairly sure of where the culprits would go, and ordered the cabbie there, informing him that there was a large sum for him if he'd get me there quickly.

He did, a bit _too_ quickly for my own tastes. This sort of jostling about in cabs at top speed was precisely the reason that Sherlock was the detective, not I.

We were speeding along when I caught sight of a hansom parked on the side of the road. I ordered the cabbie to a halt, stepping out and moving as quickly as I could back to the hansom.

I may be less active that Sherlock, but I am no less observant and certainly no less experienced, so it was not hard to perceive the footsteps leading into the woods. Five sets: Sherlock, the doctor, and the three culprits. Three to two then.

An _idée noire*_ formed in my head of what might of happened, but I quickly pushed it out and made my way into the trees, following the footsteps.

It was not long before I heard voices, two of which I recognized as my brother and Dr. Watson. They were close.

I came to the edge of a clearing, standing inside of which were Sherlock and Dr. Watson at the business end of the culprit's revolver. I licked my lips- what a mess they had gotten into this time. I was formulating a plan in my head, but before I could come up with anything, there was a flash of movement from the clearing.

In an instant it was a jumble of bodies. I thought I had seen the doctor and my brother move first. There had been no gunshots, thank God.

I made a move to advance and help the two of them, for it was an uneven fight at the moment, but quick as you'd like the jumbled mass had stopped struggling, and the doctor had straightened up with the villain's revolver in his hand. Sherlock was not far behind him.

I chose this moment to finally enter the fray, becalmed as it may be. The Doctor acknowledged me with a quick nod then turned his attention back to the gang. Sherlock walked over to meet me, straightening his cuffs as he did.

"It looks as if you have the situation well under control, Sherlock"

He glanced at Dr. Watson, who was glaring at the villains, the revolver traveling slowly over each one.

"Yes, we've had an easier time of it than we thought. I must apologize for bring you out of your armchair in such an abrupt way."

I shook my head. "I shall never understand why you prefer this sort of thing to a peaceful smoke and newspaper."

"I have an infinite capacity for taking pains**, brother mine, and a companion to hold the revolver."

* * *

*French, 'black thought'

**Holmes was quoting Thomas Carlyle, "_Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains."_

Carlyle was one of the examples of Holmes's ignorance of basic things in STUD. "Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done."

Later on, though we learn that Holmes was only feigning ignorance, for he uses the above quote to Gregson and Lestrade after inspecting the body.


	48. Reticence

A/N: "Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish bath. It was over a smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found him less reticent and more human than anywhere else"- ILLU

* * *

I found that in the later days of my association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes he seemed to be more humane than he had been in our younger days. He was surely not the "brain without a heart" that I had once so ignorantly described him to be. I that knew him so well saw the subtle changes in his behavior from the raucous young man I'd me at Bart's. If age has not softened him, it had certainly made him a more generally amiable man.

An occurrence that shall always be locked in my memory is of one day, very near Holmes's retirement to the Sussex downs, when he had invited me to spend a day with him at the Turkish baths of which both of us are very fond.

We sat back in the lounge chairs with an ounce of tobacco each. The conversation had flowed into all sorts of channels. Holmes was talking freely. He had let down the aloof detective façade and shown himself, to me at least, as a mere mortal like the rest of us.

Holmes had announced his retirement to me a few weeks before. It was a bittersweet declaration for me. On one hand, Holmes would be out of the constant danger cases presented, but on the other we would be separated for long periods of time. I received the news with as much grace as I could muster. I thought I had deceived him with my false joy, but Holmes can read my emotions easier than a book, and told me so at the baths.

"I'm sorry to leave you here alone, Watson." He said. "I really shall miss not having you around."

I was startled at this openness. It took me a moment to recover me bearings, and by the time I did Holmes had retreated back into his pipe and his silence.

I compensated myself with the knowledge that if I ever needed a choice piece of blackmail for Sherlock Holmes, I need only quote him at the Turkish baths.


	49. Return

A/N: The other day in English we were assigned to read a short story out of our books. Usually these short stories are perfectly boring. Imagine my surprise and delight when I opened to the page to find 'The Speckled Band'. Best assignment ever.

This is a 221b from Lestrade's POV.

* * *

They came strolling up the path arm in arm, the doctor with a bigger smile on his face than I'd seen in a long time. Three years, perhaps.

It wasn't hard to see that Mr. Holmes was delighted as well. He tried to keep up that aloof façade but his expression of complete content was ill hidden.

A few constables and I had seen him briefly in Camden House, just long enough to confirm that he actually was alive. Of all the tricks he had pulled, of all the dramatic closings to cases, I should say that this was his _magnum opus_.

I should say it affected more people than he ever thought. Even at the Yard we felt the reverberations of it. There was many a time that I had longed for some advice on a particularly outré case.

We at the Yard sometimes came off as more antagonistic to Holmes than we were. I had the utmost respect for the man; he could just be a bit irritating sometimes.

There was not a man in the Yard that didn't smile when the two of them walked by grinning their heads off.

"Good afternoon, Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said, in a more jovial and amiable tone than I have ever heard out of him.

We were glad to have him back.


	50. Weep Not Too Much

"_Weep not too much, my darling; _

_Sigh not too oft for me; _

_Say not the face of Nature_

_Has lost its charm for thee._

_I have enough of anguish_

_In my own breast alone;_

_Thou canst not ease the burden, Love,_

_By adding still thine own. "_

_-Weep Not Too Much, Anne Bronte

* * *

_

I did not want to die. Of course I did not want to die.

I reassured all who visited that I had accepted my fate and was content in my going, but truly I could not grasp the thing. There was so much I was leaving undone- and my poor, Dear John. He was an unjustly bereaved man- his brother, his health, his dearest friend, and now his wife. I could swear that I had been his only hold on reality since Mr. Holmes died. I so hoped that he would find another, for I could not stand for him to do something foolish because of this wretchedly timed fatality.

That was my worst qualm, leaving him alone. As much as my own intentions were to be ruined, I thought that he would be forever sunken into a deep depression, or worse. I could not stand that- oh, I loved him so. Alas, I was powerless over such an inevitable force as death.

I could not ask him not to mourn; he would do so regardless. I could only ask to him to find some other hold on reality- whatever providential thing it might be.

* * *

A/N: Geez, I'm not even in a sad mood or anything…

Well, would you look at that, 50 chapters! I want to thank you all for your support and kind words. My reviews page flabbergasts me. You rock my socks.


	51. Appellation

True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation.- George Washington

* * *

I could not pinpoint the exact day, the exact week, even the month our friendship was conceived. It evolved gradually but steadily from fellow-lodger to acquaintance to "intimate friend and associate".

We were fast friends by the second year since our meeting, and grew closer as time passed. Holmes's three-year absence no doubt intensified our friendship on his return. But never have I felt such a sense of unity and companionship, as well as flattery, as when I noticed the subtle and slight change in Holmes's speech in our later years. It was mentioned in passing, but I could not help but notice it.

"…if detective_s_ are put on his track..." he had said to Mr. Bennett, who was concerned in the affair that I have since recorded as 'The Creeping Man'.

I could not help but note the plural.


	52. Cold

A/N: The best thing happened the other day- we watched half of Granada's Speckled Band in English! I died and went to heaven right there.

* * *

Maiwand was only the fatal crown on a terrible expedition. I remember the battle fuzzily. The battle was frenzied fighting, then a long period of time where much is lost to me.

More vividly I recollect the long marches we spent traveling from camp to camp. Disease would take many, but heat was the real suffering-inducer.

At Quetta, where I joined with the ill-fated Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, temperatures were unbearable. The sun beat down on us all day and the tents were like ovens all night. One day we recorded temperatures of 140 degrees*. The heat was unbearable. It made strong men weak and weak men dead.

There is one journey that stands out particularly in my mind for its gruesome results. We were expected to cover forty miles in two days. There were twenty-five of us on that march.

We lost fourteen.

In Candahar** temperatures were slightly better, but we were sporadically under harassment from Ghazis and constantly from disease. Then Maiwand came and hacked us to pieces.

I was lucky to get out of it with only the memories some shrapnel lodged in my arm. Enteric fever brought an honorable discharge swiftly with it, and soon I was on the docks of Portsmouth, with neither kin nor kith to greet me and a valise full of too-big clothes.

England never seemed so cold.

* * *

A/N: I kind of want to write a fic about Watson's war experiences before Maiwand (since Pompey's already done so brilliantly with _A Young British Soldier_), but I'm afraid it would be terribly boring and mostly irrelevant. I don't think it would be a very attractive read. I don't think _I_ would read it.

*First, this is Fahrenheit. Second, the British Army did officially record temperatures of 140 in 1851 in Quetta.

**I'm using Watson's spelling, but it's actually Kandahar

I'm drawing pretty heavily from "Good Old Watson" (introduction, Baring-Gould) for some of the 'facts'.


	53. Respect

A/N: drabble! And it's actually 100 words.

* * *

It was always amusing when a Scotland Yard Inspector first worked with Holmes.

"Is he quite right in the head?" some would whisper, watching as Holmes minutely examined the floorboards.

Some thought they could best Holmes. They would spend the whole case swimming in self-confidence while then with one sentence Holmes would chop their theories to pieces.

Some looked on in respect, for Holmes's reputation often preceded him. They'd heard stories from the older Inspectors.

By the time the case was resolved they had all acquired that acute sense of respect one inevitably gains while observing Holmes at his work.


	54. Progress

A/N: It's been a while, eh? Sorry about that. I'm afraid only another drabble-length.

I bought a five-dollar 'detective pipe' today. Wow. It's got a special place on my desk now.

* * *

The street lamps lining the roads eventually converted from gas to electric, the horse-pulled conveyances to noisy motorcars, the strict Victorian attitude to one of tolerance. The lamplighters and cabmen were employed in an industry or recruited for the new century's war; a war made more terrible and deadly by the same progression that had produced the harmless gramophone. Change was inevitable, however bitter and unwanted it might be to the older generation.

Nothing was as good an indication of unwelcome progression as when Simpson's in the Strand was demolished to make room for a new auto parts store.


	55. Extraordinary

A/N: Whoohoo for drabbles!

* * *

After my service in the Second Anglo-Afghan War I was certain the person I respected most was, and would always be, General Charles George Gordon. Henry Ward Beecher also held a high place in my respects, so that there was a sort of a tie between the two. Of the three photographs I still had in my possession by the end of the war, theirs were guarded the most astutely. I was convinced that no one I would ever meet would surpass the intellect, morals, or achievements of these two extraordinary gentlemen.

That was before I met Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


	56. The Return of the BullPup

_It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey, had insisted upon traveling third-class, and was now clamorous in his objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last arrive in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse humour._

"_You had best take Baker Street as we pass" said I. "Mr. Holmes may have some fresh instructions."_

"_If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much use," said Amberley, with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept me company. –RETI_

I had tolerated Amberley and his miserly ways all night. I had tolerated his third-class carriage, tolerated paying his half of the hotel bill, tolerated his irritating complaints about the vicar. Even my considerable patience was stretched tight by morning. The malicious slur on Holmes proved to be the limit.

"You will kindly restrain such comments, sir!" I bristled, raising my voice. "I trust Mr. Holmes's instructions to the furthest extent, and you would do well to do the same; especially since you were the one to consult him!"

Amberley was taken aback for a moment but soon resumed his scowl, albeit more subtly now. I sat back in my seat, grimacing out the window and thinking very badly of this ill-mannered client.

Later, when I sheepishly recounted the exchange to Holmes, he laughed.

"I have not seen the bull-pup in a long while" said he. "I had thought it was long gone."

"It shows itself when vulgar clients trod on my patience and insult my friends." I retorted.

Holmes looked at my oddly for a moment. His lips curled up into a smile. "I would advise you to keep that conversation out of your narrative, Watson. I'm afraid it might tarnish the saintly character that goes by your name in your writings."

* * *

A/N: I just finished the canon tonight…I've alternated between wanting to bawl and grinning madly.

I'd like to thank everyone for your wonderful support. 200 reviews is beyond what I ever imagined. You rock my socks.


	57. Friends

"_The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well…"- WIST

* * *

_

"Very funny, Watson. Have I not told you before that I have no friends except yourself?"

"Poppycock, Holmes. You've many people that would call you 'friend'."

"I wouldn't call them 'friend'."

"Come now, there's surely someone. What about Lestrade?"

"A purely professional relationship. I could not stand the man's blundering long enough to call him a friend."

"What about Stanley Hopkins, then? You said you saw potential in him."

"Investigatory potential, not social."

"Mycroft?"

"He is my brother, Watson, I am obligated to be friendly to him."

"Mrs. Husdon?"

"Our motherly landlady? Watson…"

"Stamford?"

"Your suggestions are becoming increasingly desperate."

"Really, Holmes, I refuse to believe you have no friends except myself!"

"I don't need any more."


	58. Lantern

"Come now, Watson, it isn't all that bad."

"Really? It isn't all that bad? We've just been deposited in the middle of an uninhabited moor during the darkest part of the night with nothing but the clothes on our backs and a faulty lantern. There is an extremely slim chance that anyone will notice we're gone and think to look for us, much less that they'll think to look for us _here_. _We _don't even have the slightest idea where we are. What else could _possibly_ happen?"

_Plunk._

"Erm, I could drop the lantern into the swamp?"

* * *

A/N: dialogue, dialogue...


	59. Punch

A/N: A continuation of the last, because _oLabyrintho_ gave me a most amusing idea.

* * *

_Smack!_

"Oof! Watson!"

"Humph."

"There was absolutely no need to punch me!"

"On the contrary, I should say the situation rather warranted it."

"_Punching_ me is not going to get anything accomplished."

"Yes, and dropping our only source of light is a stunning example of progress."

"Let us move on, Watson."

"I'm not sure that I can move on. It's a rare occurrence for you to make _such_ a grievous error. You yourself always say that you are not without fault and are often insisting that I publish more of your slip-ups. Perhaps I should write up this case-"

"_No."_


	60. And A Faulty Lantern 1

_A/N: This is an expansion of the last two, at the request of __**Tanigi **__and my imagination. More to come, but I thought I'd get this out since updates have been so sparse lately._

"Perhaps this is not the best idea you've had."

"Nonsense," replied my friend, opening my hall closet and rummaging madly for something. He withdrew at last, with a triumphant smile, holding my dark lantern.

"I knew you had one somewhere." He proclaimed.

I had awoken in the middle of the night to find Holmes standing above me not unlike he had on occasion at Baker Street. But I was no longer lodging at Baker Street, rather with my wife at our new house. Thank goodness Mary was away visiting an aunt, for I doubt she would have appreciated my friends ambling into our room in the middle of the night. Whether Holmes's appearance and Mary's absence was a coincidence was another matter; though Holmes was at his most cavalier with me, he treated Mary sincerely and with the utmost respect.

"How quickly can you be ready?" He had asked on my awakening.

"Ten minutes," I'd sputtered, after a brief pause to process that Holmes was in my room at midnight.

He had promptly disappeared down the stairs, leaving me to dress and shave in a confused daze. Within the allotted time I stumbled down the stairs, rubbing my eyes.

Before I could say anything, Holmes was calling out directions.

"Get your overcoat, Watson, it's a chilly night. No, your dark one, I'd prefer we remain unseen. I hardly think the landlord would appreciate us looking in on his client's nocturnal activities."

"What are we doing?"

"We are on a fact-checking excursion."

"In the middle of the night?"

"We will be frowned upon by constables and culprits alike if we are caught. Night provides good cover for such things."

It was then that I expressed my opinion on the matter, and Holmes rejected it swiftly. Before I had another chance to object, he had grabbed my elbow and pulled me outside. A cab was waiting, and Holmes must've told the driver directions before coming to get me, for as soon as we were seated it lurched forward. Holmes sat back and closed his eyes, effectively barring any questions I might have.

Some time later the cab came to a halt and Holmes hopped out. I followed, stepping onto a patch of grass growing up in the cobblestone. We were in a neighborhood of bad disrepair. Every other house had a broken window or door off its hinges. I could see only one house with lights on, a large rickety building at the end of the street. Holmes made towards it, beckoning me to do the same.

Near the end of the street Holmes dodged off into a side alley to the left of the lighted house. We followed it and came out in the side yard, the soft gaslight spilling out onto the yard. From our position we could just see into one of the larger windows. Several silhouettes were framed, and if I strained my ears I could make out faint conversation. Holmes crouched at the side of the building, listening acutely.

Quite suddenly one of the seated silhouettes stood up and gestured wildly with his hands. Holmes scrambled backwards, knocking into me and causing me to fall into a stack of crates behind me. They tumbled and rumbled and fell to the ground with the loudest racket possible. The silhouettes turned their profiles in our direction, and before we could untangle ourselves and dash away several men were surrounding us in the alley. I saw Holmes being pulled up and felt myself being lifted by my collar and one lapel.

"What's this?" a highly aristocratic voice asked from somewhere behind me. Hearing no answer from Holmes or I, they proceeded to drag us into the lighted building. I was prepared to brawl, but Holmes caught my eye and shook his head.

We were set down in a room bare of furniture besides a wooden table and six chairs. Four of our captors stood menacingly over us while the other two conversed quietly in the corner. Soon they seemed to come to an agreement, and two approached us with blunt heavy canes in their hands. I glanced at Holmes once before a splitting blow landed on my head and all went black.


	61. And A Faulty Lantern 2

A/N: Continuation of the last

* * *

When I next awoke it was with a consistent pounding behind my eyes and Sherlock Holmes once again hovering over me. We were in some sort of moving contraption, for we bounced up and down and swayed back and forth. I brought my hand up to my head and rubbed the bridge of my nose, eliciting a small groan. Holmes turned towards me and flashed a somber smile.

I sat up, feeling a wave of dizziness as I did. Soon it cleared, and I looked around, confirming my opinion that we were in the back of a cart, being driven by two of the men we that had apprehended us. I saw Holmes, looking at me with an expression not unlike concern and sporting a livid purple bruise under his left eye.

"What happened?" I whispered, clutching my head as I did.

"You were hit with a weighted stick." He murmured.

"I was aware of _that_." I hissed, and then gestured towards his eye. "What happened to your eye?"

He dismissed my query with a sharp wave of his hand. I tried to reposition myself but found that my feet were bound tightly together with a thin cord. Try as I might, I could not break it.

I lay back, resting my head against the side of the cart and trying to gather my senses. The passing landscape was barren and uninhabited, so we could not yell out for help. The bindings around our feet prevented us from running or escaping the cart. I dearly hoped that Holmes had formulated an escape plan because I could think of nothing.

An hour passed. Just as I supposed I would doze off the cart lurched to a stop and the two drivers hopped out. I was grabbed by my much-harassed collar once again and lifted out of the cart, where I was deposited unceremoniously on the ground. Holmes landed beside me.

Without even a parting word the two men got back in the cart and drove off, leaving us _au pied die la lettre _in their dust.

I looked at Holmes for directions but was dismayed to see him gazing off into the night.

"What now, Holmes?" I asked, though I felt like I was addressing a brick wall.

He took his time replying, but eventually turned in my direction. "First," he said, "We must get out of these bonds."

I bent over to attempt severing the bonds with my hands. They were stiff and impenetrable as ever. Holmes seemed to have better luck; he had pulled a pocketknife out of his coat and was now sawing at the cord. He broke one layer, two, then three, spreading his legs and rotating his ankles to return feeling to them before starting on my cords.

Soon our feet were free, though little help it was to us. Holmes stood and assisted me to my feet after I stumbled once on my way up. My head still pounded with a vengeance, making me wish quite fervently I had never allowed us to go on this foolish excursion.

"I think, Watson," Holmes spoke up, "that I have some vague idea of where we are. If we proceed in a straight line to our west," here he gestured towards the boggy area to the left of our vantage point, "we should come upon civilization in a short amount of time."

I was skeptical for the second time that night. "Surely if we just follow that road back the way we came-"

"I assure you, Watson, that would take hours longer."

I had learned to trust Holmes and his directional omniscience, so I let him lead me towards the west, as he had indicated, and into the marsh.

My first step beyond the road was into a puddle of mud that caused my boot to sink three feet before I could reclaim it. Holmes pressed on, telling me to "step where he stepped". I wondered how he could know where to step, but he had been successful so far, so I was careful to place my feet exactly where he had.

We picked our way through the mud and wet until my leg began to ache and my eyes began to droop. I decided it was time question Holmes sense of direction.

"Where are we, Holmes?"

"In a marsh."

"How close to civilization?"

"I have no way of telling."

"Then we're lost?"

"No, we are just not as close to the village as I thought."

"We're lost."

"….Yes."

* * *

A/N: I feel like the theme of this is quickly becoming Holmes messing up. More to come.


	62. And A Faulty Lantern 3

A/N: Hello again! Sorry for the long delay! My laptop pulled a frightening stunt and died for a couple days, but I've resurrected it with a clamp and a piece of wood, at least temporarily.

* * *

We trudged through the swamp under Holmes's "straight and true" sense of direction well into the night- or perhaps it was better labeled as morning by now, as the barely-readable face of my watch told me.

Holmes and I were weary, cold, and wet, conditions that only increased my agitation with him. The implicit trust I always placed in Holmes had led us wrong this time, and while I realized he was not imperturbable to mistakes, I did not see why he seem to insist on keeping on when _both_ of us knew he was wrong.

My irritation came to a climax when in the middle of yet another of my protests to Holmes's methods, he exemplified my concerns by dropping the lantern irretrievably into the bog. This led to a rather unfortunate and rash reaction on my part, one that I do not care to repeat but am heartily ashamed of.

Now, with no light and no sense of direction, my anger faded into hopelessness and I sunk down on the spot, sitting on a relatively dry patch of grass. I heard Holmes slink down beside me, and could quite picture in my mind's eye his posture: knees folded in, arms hugging his legs.

I sighed, feeling more despair than vexation now. "I'm sorry, Holmes. That was really a unfair reaction." I said after a few minutes.

"No, my dear fellow, it was quite justifiable." He answered softly. "My judgment has proved most erroneous tonight."

I had not a proper reply to this. Instead I stood up and offered a hand to Holmes, which he eventually made out through the darkness and took, allowing me to help him to his feet.

"Lead on, Holmes."

I saw the outline of his head swivel sharply towards me in surprise, but he made no comment and started forward. I made sure to keep him in close range, for in this blackness it was easy to lose sight of your own hand, and the last thing we needed was to be separated.

We had slogged through the stomp for perhaps a quarter of an hour before the first scare came. In my blindness I stepped off the solid ground into a sinking puddle of mud and water, my leg falling heavily and almost taking the rest of me with it had it not been for Holmes's remarkably quick reflexes. He snatched a handful of my coat and pulled me back to dry land, keeping his hand firmly on my elbow for a few moments afterwards. Perhaps it was a trick of the non-existent light, but Holmes's eyes looked wide with something I might identify as fear in anyone else.

Not so long after the same thing happened, but this time it was Holmes who nearly became victim to the swamp and I who hauled him back.

The night was taking its toll on us both. My leg and head ached dully, and I could see a slight stagger in Holmes's step despite the darkness. I was about to suggest we sit and rest, and maybe try to think of another idea when Holmes gave an shout of joy and moments later my feet met hard ground. I was never so glad to feel a dirt path in my life. I flung myself down on it and closed my eyes, feeling profusely thankful to once again be on firm earth.

Several times I have had chance to wonder at Holmes's and my luck, and this was another such occasion. Not one minute after we stumbled upon the path the sound of a horse and cart reached our ears. Holmes jumped to his feet and I sat up in alertness. He waved his arms wildly at the approaching cart, effectively bringing it to a stop just in front of us. It proved to be a milk cart making its way to town to deliver bottles before dawn, reinforcing my opinion that it was closer to morning than night. The driver spared a dubious look at our mud-encrusted clothing but otherwise said nothing and allowed us to ride in the back of his cart into the nearest town.

* * *

A/N: Probably one more of this arc.


	63. And A Faulty Lantern 4

A/N: Well, more laptop troubles, but this time I think it's dead forever. Got most of my stuff, but it's very hampering to the writing process. Stay with me!

* * *

"I'm sorry to bring you on such a fruitless and tiring endeavor," Holmes called as he unlocked the front door of our wonderfully warm and comfortable homes.

"It is quite alright," I whispered, for Mrs. Hudson was most definitely still asleep. "You know that I would not miss it for the world."

Holmes placed his hat carefully on the stand in a gesture of defeat- had we been successful, he would have thrown it haphazardly across the hall and marched up the stairs.

I looked wistfully in the direction of the kitchen, imagining how amiable a steaming cup of coffee would be. I made towards the doorway, but Holmes stopped me with a hand on my elbow.

"I'll get the tea, old boy, you start the fire." He disappeared into the kitchen, where I hear the quiet clanging of china.

I turned back towards the stairs and started up them. At once I saw the wisdom of Holmes's offer and the circumstances he had certainly foreseen and hoped to avoid. I ascended the stairs slowly and unsteadily. There was no chance I could have made it up the steps with a tea tray in hand. I wasn't sure I'd make it with only my own self to mind.

At last I made it to the landing and entered the sitting room. Resisting the urge to settle at once into my armchair with an inviting afghan, I took kindling from the box on the mantle and started a small inferno in the fireplace. Holmes entered with the tea just as I relaxed into my armchair. Never had a chair felt so comfortable, with perhaps the exception of immediately after the battle of Maiwand, and at that time I had been barely cognizant enough to recognize I was in a chair.

Holmes served the tea and sunk into his own chair. "I have never felt such a fool, Watson." He mumbled darkly.

I chuckled silently at this. Holmes had extremely high standards of success. I was satisfied that we had come through the night relatively unscathed and un-swallowed by the marsh.

"Our greatest glory-" I began in an effort to soothe his dark mood, only to be sharply cut off.

"There is too much at stake for failure." He snapped.

"I did not think the case was of great importance."

"It is not the case I was referring to." I heard him utter. "But it didn't help that much either."

"If nothing else, it will prove an amusing read for my readers in the _Strand_." I raised an eyebrow.

Holmes clouded over and whipped his head around. "You wouldn't _dare_-"

"You'll give yourself neck troubles like that." I smiled innocently.

"Watson…" By now he'd realized I was teasing and settled back into his chair, a bit less tense.

"You do say I should publish your blunders along with your triumphs." I commented.

"My blunders, not my utter failures."

"I shall write it up all the same." I replied. "And use it as a bargaining chip should I ever have to keep you on bed rest."

* * *

A/N: And there is the end of that arc. Holmes will be relieved. Free underwear for all your patience.


	64. Good Ol' Fashioned Rock Slabs

A/N: This is most certainly crack fic and lacks any sort of story elements whatsoever. I'm largely just making fun of myself.

It's not quite the equivalent of what happened to me and my writing apparatus, but this is the result of staying up much to late and attempting to write.

* * *

Holmes was justifiably surprised to enter the sitting room and find it full of rock slabs. He stared curiously at Watson, who was perched on his desk chair with one of the many slabs.

"Ah, Holmes, you're home." said the doctor.

"Yes. Watson…What is this?"

"Well, you see, my notebook has unfortunately broken. So I've had to resort to writing the old fashioned way."

"Carving the letters into rock slabs?"

"Quite so."

There was a short pause while Holmes considered this information.

"Do you have any idea how long you'll have to do this?" Holmes asked, cocking an eyebrow at the enormous stack of stone pieces beside Watson's desk.

"I hope to fix it as soon, but it turns out journals are rather expensive these days."

* * *

A/N: So are computers, Watson. I feel your pain.


	65. A Helping Hand

A/N: Here's an actual attempt at writing, not some 100 word crack-fest. I still don't like it very much.

* * *

Although my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes does his best to put on an air of dislike and disdain towards Scotland Yard in general, which sometimes is perhaps genuine, the astute observer will notice the underlying friendliness Holmes has with the members of the Yard.

One of the outstanding instances that exemplifies this connection occurred on a case that Holmes had nothing to do with professionally. We had taken a stroll in an effort to escape the stiffing heat of London in August and happened to pass by Inspector Bradstreet, who was apparently having some trouble with a stubborn shopkeeper.

We slowed and came to a stop just before the shop, seating ourselves on a nearby bench and listening in on the conversation.

"Sir, I must insist that you allow me to investigate." Bradstreet said.

"Darn right I'll let you stroll into my shop and ramshackle it with your _investigations_!"

The conversation carried on in the same manner with both parties becoming increasingly irritated. Bradstreet seemed unable to convince the man that these had been a break-in the night before; in fact, I could see no signs of any attempted robbery.

Holmes scanned the scene quickly, grey eyes darting across the pavement and walls. He coughed loudly, successfully arresting Bradstreet's attention. The inspector looked over to see Holmes subtly gesturing towards the brick above the doorway. Bradstreet's eyes lit up and he pointed out the brick to the shopkeeper and explaining how it showed signs of recent break-in.

Holmes proceeded to repeat this process several times with other clues until the shopkeeper was persuaded to let Bradstreet in to investigate.

Bradstreet threw Holmes a intensely grateful glance, but Holmes merely grabbed my elbow and led me down the street without even a glimpse in the inspector's direction.

I found to hard to believe when he complained the next day of the 'bumbling Yarders'.


	66. Bloody Chivalry

_"The fellow gave a below of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway._

_"Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it! I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night express." -LADY

* * *

_

I was never truly angry with Watson. How could I be angry with him? Agitated, irritated, perhaps, but never angry. I reserved anger for those deserving of it.

Where had that ridiculously caustic tone of voice even come from? He had not done all too terrible in his investigations, just not well enough to meet the standard I set for myself. I should not have expected him to meet it, no one but I myself could. He'd done as well as any Yard Inspector would be expected to do.

If anything I was more irritated with his bloody constant chivalry. His eyes had been blinded with worry for the Lady Frances so that any thought of his own safety was discarded from his mind. He might have been killed by Green had I not been there to break the man's grip on his throat. Goodness knows I had enough to worry about sending him off on a case on his own without him placing himself in harm's way.

I reprimanded him sharply afterward for trying to (understandably) catch the culprit, then told him what I thought of his efforts so far in bitterly cold terms.

And he, of course, forgave me by the time we were back in Baker Street that night.

Whatever did I do to deserve such a comrade?

* * *

A/N: Sorry I've been so terrible with updates lately.


	67. Permanent

A/N:Drabble-ish, Holmes POV, pre-STUD.

* * *

Ideally I could take the rooms in Baker Street for myself and myself alone, but such an option was sadly unavailable due to the woeful state of my finances and unsympathetic mood of my brother as of late.

Even with the inconvenience of having to share rooms with an undoubtedly an unfortunately sociable flat mate, my new lodgings would be a drastic improvement from that dump in Montague Street. Additionally, with the amiable pricing of the Baker Street rooms, saving money would be exponentially easier. I only had to wait six months by contract, by which time I expected my business to pick up. The fellow would be forced out and I'd have the rooms to myself.

I wouldn't have to tolerate a flat mate long.


	68. Empathy

A/N:Extremely rough, quickly written drabbly thing. Holmes POV

* * *

I still maintain that writing a farewell note to Watson at the falls is the hardest thing I have done in my considerable experiences. I was never satisfied with it; how can one ever be satisfied with a few sentences as final words to one's dearest friend? But the antagonistic professor would not wait forever. Blood lust becomes stale if left to fester.

I was convinced it would be the last thing I'd say to him, a few measly lines about how I'd divided my property. And it nearly was.

I therefore had some small amount of empathy, if not an immense amount of sympathy, for him when he composed his account of my death. I remind myself, though, that I had the consolation of knowing my friend was alive to read it.


	69. Absurd

"_I have some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."- SPEC_

I remember quite distinctly the qualms I had about involving Watson with the Stoke Moran affair, for it was easily conceivable that danger, either by way of man or beast, would come our way.

It was the first time I had had such trouble deciding whether to take him along on a case. It was certainly not the first time we'd encountered danger together, in fact, I'd asked him to bring along his revolver on our first case together (1). But at that time I'd thought of him as a mere accomplice, equal to Gregson or Lestrade. Now I have become so ridiculously attached to the idea of having him around that I cannot bear the thought of him being killed on my watch. In fact, I am beginning to think that before long I will not be able to function properly without him.

It is an absurd idea.

* * *

1-"Have you any arms?" "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges." "You had better clean it and load it." -STUD

* * *

A/N: SPEC takes place in '83, and is the first time (chronologically) Holmes refers to Watson as 'my intimate friend and associate'.


	70. Loyalty

I have often wondered at the constant loyalty of Watson. He has implicit trust in me, more than I have in myself, and enough that I hope it shall not get him into trouble on my behalf.

Perhaps it was shock, or just an intense desire to help me in my weakened state, but the most remarkable instance comes from the Baron Gruner case*. I gave no explanation, only asked him to "spend the next 24 hours in an intensive study of Chinese pottery."

I had intended it as an almost-joke in an attempt to lighten the mood, for he still looked unjustifiably scared at my condition, but he asked for no explanation and set off to perform the task immediately.

I have no doubt that he performed the dissimulation portion of his job less than admirably, but I expected no more, Watson is too honest for acting.

In light of his other qualities, I may be able to forgive it.

* * *

*ILLU


	71. Gifts

I had never expected Sherlock Holmes to be a very good gift-giver; he was far too emotionally cold and impersonal when we first met to give me anything that would not be considered a characteristic gift to give to a Victorian gentleman.

After a few years I was proud to say I had slightly broken him of his reclusive habits, at least in my direction, and had received a few rather good and personal gifts from Holmes at Christmastime.

I was certain all progress had been lost forever, though, when one year he gave me a high –powered field glass.

* * *

_"You would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field glass."- SILV_

_

* * *

_A/N: A real, legit, exact drabble!_  
_


	72. Responsibility

A/N: FINA drabble. Also, I realize I've been absolutely horrid with updates lately, and I apologize.

* * *

Holmes and I were rather in disagreement over whether I should stay with him on his 'holiday' or return to my practice in England as he fled from Professor Moriarty, and to say that we debated the question for half an hour is no exaggeration. I remained stubborn as a rock and Holmes grew increasingly flustered and unconvincing in his argument. I finally clinched my point with the observation that if I returned to my practice Moriarty might make some murderous attack on me there, whereas here we could look out for each other.

Holmes face blanched and he conceded.


	73. Trifles

A/N: An exact droubble, also rambling about FINA.

* * *

The Alpine-Stock I regarded bitterly, as if it had been the source of it all, the reason we'd ventured up to see the falls.

I kept the cigarette case, of course, and the note, though for some time I had to give the note up to the official force for investigation. They were kind enough to return it to me, for better or for worse. It was certainly of immense sentimental value to me, but to look upon it would send me into depths of memories.

There were still cigarettes in it, his very favorite kind, and he smoked one on the first night of our mutual return to Baker Street.

The whole affair was examined by "experts", who told me matter-of-factly and rather self-assuredly that there had been a battle between the two of them and they had both consequently plunged into the waterfall. Then they put on their sickly-sweet sympathetic voices and tried to be consoling as if they too had just suffered a great lost while puffing out their chests all the while for coming to such a difficult conclusion.

Holmes could have told us the exact lay of events by just a glance at the scene.

* * *

A/N: I'm now the proud owner of an antique silver cigarette case…that was sitting by a dish with a tag on it marked 'Hyde Park'…and the dish was filled with pipes. I don't think the store owner was even aware of the glorious connection.


	74. Holmes is Wrong

"Watson, it is unusual of you to have visited a public house so early in the day."

"Why, Holmes!"

"It is an extraordinarily simple chain of deductions, dear fellow. You left the house in bad spirits mid-morning. I cannot fathom what caused you to sink as far as to seek comfort from alcohol that time of day, but when you did you managed to irk some patron enough to entice him to give you that beauty above your left eye. Somewhere along the way you spilled your drink, as exhibited by that foul-smelling stain on your shirt. You must have been fairly intoxicated, for once you were home you tripped over the dining room table and displaced it, then sat where you are, I presume, until now."

Holmes stopped and studied his fingernails, inclining his chin slightly.

I raised both eyebrows.

"Actually, Holmes, I'm afraid most of your deductions are erroneous."

He jerked his head up.

"I left early this morning, yes," I continued, "In bad spirits because I had an appointment with a client who not only insists on appointments at the earliest possible hour of the morning, but is a through-and-through hypochondriac. I went to the appointment, not a public-house, then continued my rounds."

"What of the stain? And the laceration?"

"Near the end of my day I saw a boy who'd cut his leg. I went to help him clean it up, for it was a nasty cut. When I stood up, I knocked my head on a wooden crate that a man passing by was carrying. That's how I acquired the 'beauty' above my eye. I then returned home, and as the boy's cut had used up the last of the disinfectant in my bag, I made to refill it from my larger stores. In the process I spilled some on my shirt and a bit on the carpet. I moved the table at Mrs. Hudson's request, so that she could clean the stain on the carpet more easily."

Holmes wore a curious expression. "Oh," he said.

I returned to reading the paper.


	75. Crutches

The train ride had been long and tedious. It was terribly boring without a companion. Then a long ride in a carriage further yet into the country, this time with a cab driver that wouldn't hush despite the amount of dark looks I threw his way.

The countryside in all its autumn glory had no effect on me. I marched up the pathway, kicking bits of gravel into the grass.

I had to stop completely and nearly forget to be angry when Watson, to my utter surprise, came hobbling out of the house on crutches, grinning and looking ridiculously cheery.

* * *

A/N: Hmm. Well, I've no idea what happened or where this is going. Continue?


	76. The Captain's Uniform

There is much waiting to be done in the army, so we entertained ourselves best we could. The seasoned soldiers told stories of their previous campaigns to keep us occupied when the order came to wait. Often they were heroic and gruesome, but one story made its way around the troops that amused us to no end.

It told of Captain O'Moore Creagh in the attack on Ali Khel. The captain awoke to siege and, having no time to change, joined the fight in his pink silk pajamas. We thought it hilarious, but the less brave ones slept in uniform.

* * *

A/N: My own small contribution to the birthday of Maiwand, though it's not quite Maiwand-related and is on the tail end of the day. I thought I'd try something a bit less depressing than the usual Maiwand fics- and from what I understand this is a true story.

And don't fret, the crutches story will continue, this is just a little break.


	77. Crutches Pt 2

A/N: Both a continuation of the crutches bit and a conquering of the rough droubbly thing.

* * *

"He came back, Holmes!" said Watson, hobbling up to me in a fit of excitement. "It was Hammett, just as you said."

"Came back?" I cried, flustered at the sight of my friend on crutches.

"Yes, only last night!"

"A second attempt at Dr. Wesley's maps?"

"Yes, though an attempt was all it amounted to."

"Dr. Wesley and I were up late last night in his observatory. The lights were all out, as the servants were abed and the heavens shine brighter without interruption. I was using Dr. Wesley's telescope when we heard several clicking sounds. Dr. Wesley caught sight of the front door, and Hammett at it, and gave a great shout. Hammett bolted in our direction. We were on the second floor balcony, but it is not a high one, so I jumped off as Hammett ran underneath and stopped him."

I froze and looked at Watson's crutches.

"You _jumped_ off a _balcony." _

"Well, as I said, it was low. And we caught Hammett!"

"And in the process injured yourself!"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean not exactly?"

"I didn't injure my leg jumping off the balcony."

I was taken aback. "The how in deuces did you?"

"Erm, well…playing rugby."

"Playing rugby!" I barked, feeling my face go scarlet. I sputtered again. "Playing rugby?"


	78. Crutches Pt 3

"Yes," came timidly, then paused for my reaction. When I provided none, Watson continued. "Dr. Wesley and some-"

"For heaven's sake, man! Have you no sense?" I cried, discovering my voice. "You might have permanently injured yourself."

"It is no new risk to me. And Holmes, I already _am _permanently injured," he said, silently indicating his shoulder and leg. "Besides, it really doesn't even concern you."

"By Jove, Watson, I find you rather useful and would appreciate if you kept yourself in one piece."

Watson looked up, any semblance of annoyance retreating and being replaced by melancholy. "It was only a friendly match. You've no idea how long it's been since I've played a proper game of rugby. I don't know how to explain it to you, Holmes. Imagine if you hadn't been able to play your Stradivarius for nigh on fifteen years."

I imagined it and promptly banished the thought, for it was an unpleasant one. I looked at Watson with new sympathy.

"Nevertheless, my dear fellow, a violin is not potentially dangerous."

Watson smiled mischievously. "My ears might beg to differ."

* * *

A/N: More on the way from this arc...


	79. Crutches Pt 4

I was about to suggest that we go inside, for Watson, despite his abundant cheer at first seeing me, was beginning to wobble dangerously on his crutches and even I felt the chill air bite.

Before I could say the words, though, we were interrupted by Dr. Wesley at the door. He called out as he swung it open and pranced over to us joyously.

"Mr. Holmes! How glad I am to see you!"

"I'm sure." I replied, with more ice in my voice than I had intended- if he had had something to do with Watson's leg…

"We've had quite the excitement without you!" Dr. Wesley said, his jolly red cheeks stretching into a grin.

"So I'm told."

"What with the break-in and Dr. Watson's leg…"

"Yes, what exactly _did_ happen?"

"Well, we were using my telescope-"

"No, _the leg."_

"Ah. I had some friends wire me about a rugby friendly they were setting up and invite me to play in it. I, of course, extended the invitation to Dr. Watson after hearing of his interest in the game as well. Everything proceeded beautifully, but midway through the game Dr. Watson took a unfortunate fall and landed oddly on his foot. We assessed it to be a minor fracture, nothing that won't heal with time. I do regret that he could not play with us the entire game, he's an excellent sportsman."

"I've no doubt he is. But you must know, Dr. Wesley, Dr. Watson is a injured veteran and should not be traipsing about sporting fields tackling men."

"Holmes!" Watson hissed.

"Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, but is that not more or less what he does with you on your cases?"

I felt my cheeks tinge red. "That is quite different."


	80. Crutches Pt 5

A/N: Sorry, just a tiny bit for now. Still Holmes POV.

Also, I picked up a turn-of-the-century copy of A Study in Scarlet, and if that wasn't exciting enough, there's an inscription on the inside covering say that the book belonged to "Irene".

* * *

"What, then, did you do with Hammet?" I asked, eager to change the subject."I never got the end to your story, Watson."

"Only because _you_ interrupted. We caught him and secured him in the kitchen. I thought it best to wait for you, Holmes, since you said you'd be coming. "

"I do hope you've some idea what to do, Mr. Holmes." Dr. Wesley interjected. "I've not enjoyed having a criminal tied up in my kitchen."

"By all means, let us go to him, then. Please say you've got someone watching him?"

"Yes, the boy. But Hammet's bound to a chair, he shouldn't be any trouble."

From the corner of my eye I saw Watson smile discreetly and Dr. Wesley look a bit confused at the swift change of subject. I began to make my way towards the house, only to fall back and walk with Watson upon remembering his current, if self-inflicted, predicament. I noted with disconcert how he limped more pronouncedly on his crutches. Thank goodness he'd injured the already crippled leg instead of the functional one; he would've had some trouble.


	81. Crutches Pt 6

Dr. Wesley had gone ahead of us, entered the hose, then rushed back out again with a horror-filled face.

"He's gone!"

We were in the kitchen in an instant. I surveyed the scene, Watson stood stock-still beside me, and Dr. Wesley hurried frantically around the room flinging open doors and drawers, as if the criminal had gone and hidden in the pantry.

Watson went to attend to the boy, who was lying dazedly in the corner.

"Where has he gone?" Dr. Wesley cried, his face turning redder still. "He was _here!"_

"Keep that up, doctor, it helps immensely." I informed Dr. Wesley, hoping that my voice had enough sarcasm in it even for him to understand. I began to work, examining the chair and floor.

I glance over at Watson, who looked up from the boy and nodded. He pulled the lad, apparently shaken but nothing more serious, to his feet and directed him to a chair.

"Stay here, please, Dr. Wesley. I am going out. The boy-"

"Will need some tea and rest, Wesley." Watson interrupted. "See to it, will you? I'm going with Holmes."

"You most certainly are not."

"He's getting away, Holmes."

I crinkled my nose and opened my mouth, then closed it again and beckoned to Watson.

* * *

A/N: Because, apparently, my brain saw fit to cut short my sleep last night in favor of a wild writing fit.


	82. Crutches Pt 7

A/N: Ah! So much happening. _Might_ not see you until Monday/Tuesday-going out of town Thursday and not sure that I'll find the time to update before then.

* * *

"If you insist on helping, Watson, then go to the post office."

"The post office?"

"Hammet was certainly only an intermediary. He will need to contact his higher-up immediately,; we must cut off any routes of communication. I'll pursue him, see if I can catch him."

"I don't like the idea of you going off alone."

"And what help will you be on crutches? Think, Watson, you know what he looks like better than I, so you will be better able to pick him out in a post office full of people, I cannot. But I can pick out a man running through the woods, there aren't many of them."

A silence.

"Be careful."


	83. Crutches Pt 8

**Holmes**

I waited no longer to rush off after the escapee; he must've be fairly far already. We'd wasted time with our blathering.

I started at a slow run, trying to track Hammet effectively and keep up with him at the same time. Luckily for me he had not been meticulous in his flight and had left plenty to be tracked. I sped up, now following the path of beaten-down leaves. Still I could see no sign of Hammet running. He must be quicker than I'd thought. I carried on, following the trail down a steep hill. I'd have him soon.

**Watson**

I demanded Dr. Wesley's horse and buggy, despite his flustered objections and questions. With a stern word and furrowed brow he easily bent to my will and fetched his groom. I struggled my way into the cart with my crutches in tow and we started towards the small village area.

The wind bit sharply at my cheeks and ears and I huddled further down into my coat. I hoped Holmes would not be reckless- if he were to be stranded somehow out in this weather he'd become ill or worse before I could get to him.

The village was not far, but time seemed to pass faster when my mind was occupied with the thrill of a case and worry for Holmes. The groom stopped us at the edge of the square and I hopped out best I could, nearly loosing my one-footed balance in my haste. I made my way across the square to the post office and burst in.

No one was there except for the bored-looking boy behind the counter. He perked up when I walked in, but I paid him little attention. I was sweeping the room with my eyes. I hobbled over to the window and faced outwards, keeping my gaze on each and every bundled-up figure that walked by. There weren't many out in this dastardly weather, so it was not hard to watch out for Hammet. The groom took the horse and cart over to the stable and stood there, looking suitably confused.

"Excuse me, sir"

I turned around, looking toward the voice that had called out. Behind the counter, next to the boy, now stood a tow-headed man with a pointed face.

"Can I help you, sir?" He asked, gazing at me pointedly.

I paused. "Just getting out of the cold, thank you."

The man inclined his chin. "Might I ask sir, your name?"

"John Watson."

The man closed his eyes for a long two seconds, then opened them again and smiled readily, nodding. I turned back to the window, hoping I hadn't missed anything.

I didn't even hear the footsteps that crept up behind me before my head was struck blindingly hard and I keeled over. I struggled for a second, then faded to black.

* * *

A/N: Whee, I'm back! And terribly tired.


	84. Crutches Pt 9

**Holmes**

I was growing increasingly frustrated. I still had not even _spotted_ Hammet, and on top of that I'd lost the trail. It was all illogical! I was agile enough to catch a fleeing criminal, skilled enough to follow a trail. Nothing added up; I should have caught Hammet by now.

There was really only one thing to do. Watson would be at the post office, and if Hammet had gotten away from me, Watson could intercept him. I would do well to get there quickly, though, for while Watson was my most-trusted companion, he was an injured man and I had no intention to further that injury or allow Hammet to escape.

It took me quite some time to make my way back out of the woods, for I had gotten into the thick of it. Finally I reached the main road and made my way into town. No one was about, but that was not surprising, it was a bitterly cold day. My fingers had begun to go numb with it.

I identified the post office, looking through the front windows for Watson. To my surprise, the store was dark and I could see no one. I felt a bubble of doubt make its way abruptly up my throat. Surely not…

Had Hammet gotten there before me? Impossible! Then what had happened, where was Watson? I rushed to the storefront and tried the door. It was bolted shut. I rammed my shoulder agitatedly into the door a few times but it was solid oak. Watson would not be in there, then, anyway.

I tried to rationalize, though I knew it was a capital mistake when deducing. Perhaps the office was closed and Watson hadn't been able to get in, so he went back to Dr. Wesley's house. But the logical, uncaring, brain without a heart strictly contradicted this foolish theory with the knowledge that Watson would surely have waited for me if he hadn't been able to get in. He wasn't one to leave his post willingly, especially on my orders.

I took a deep breath. To my alarm, for once, I hadn't the faintest what to do.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the wonky update schedule. I've started school again and it's being a bully on my free time.

* * *

2nd A/N: Don't you hate it when you upload a chapter but then forget to actually _post_ it? Oops...


	85. Crutches Pt 10

**Watson**

I reflected sadly on how a child's brain could be influenced. With proper instruction, any urchin could develop into a successful, honest adult. With such influence as this raggedy band of second-rate criminals, a child knew no more than what he was taught. So it was with the boy that watched over me now.

He was the same as had been in the post office. I had awoken with him standing over me with a _knife _clutched in his too-small hand. Here was a child holding a knife over me! I was confused as it was and startled even more when I saw the boy. He scowled at me and had kept a scrunched up expression of concentration from then until now, only breaking position to call to his superiors to inform them I was awakened. It was ridiculous that he should even have superiors, and certainly not criminal ones! By comparison, the Irregulars' futures looked bright.

The predicament was that he was a child. There was no chance of escape. I did not know how far he would go with that knife- it might be bred in him to stab as easily as breathing is bred into anyone else. I could certainly not hit him or properly defend myself for fear of hurting him. Despite his being a festering criminal, I could not bring myself to it. He was only a boy, and it was no fault of his that he'd been taught to do a deed like this.

Then there was the question of why exactly I was here. Obviously it had something to do with the Hammet affair, but I could not think of any possible motive Hammet's gang would have to take me captive. Would it not be easier and safer for them to just run off? They were either very poor criminals or had a very good reason. As dangerous as this all was for me, it was even more dangerous for them if they got caught.

Yet it was still very dangerous for me. Normally in a situation such as this I would attempt to escape, especially with such poor guard. If I was healthy I would be able to run off away from the boy without any damage to him or me. But this cursed leg of mine! The rugby-playing idea had perhaps not been a good one after all, despite what I had adamantly said to Holmes. There was also the throbbing above my right ear to take into account- though I was certainly not concussed, it was still addling and would in no way improve my already faulty equilibrium.

I could only wait for Holmes, an option that I did not relish. Not only would it lead Holmes into danger, but I felt utterly useless. I felt I must try to escape somehow. There really only was the boy, who I might be able to outrun, and the group of criminals huddled in a circle some ways away.

There was also the consideration that Holmes might not be able to find me anytime soon. I had absolute trust that he would locate me eventually, but I knew how that would wear on the both of us. I had no idea even where I was myself. From all I could tell, we were outside in a wooded area. I did not attempt any more observation than that for now. Though I knew Holmes's methods, applying them was something else entirely.

The sun had moved a small amount across the sky, so it was afternoon- an hour, maybe two, had passed since Holmes had arrived at Dr. Wesley's house. I imagined Holmes was fretting by now.

* * *

A/N: So, I'm doing my math homework the other night, and I see this little feature article in my book. I go to look at it, since the homework is terribly boring. The article is called 'The Science of Deduction' and is all about deducing things, and even has a nice little reference to Sherlock Holmes at the end :D


	86. Crutches Pt 11

**Holmes**

All my logic flooded back over me in a massive wave, leaving me feeling determined and a bit disgusted that I'd lost control so far as to not be able to think.

I must take action in finding Watson, and if I could track down a complete stranger, I could certainly track down my dearest friend. The first step was to check the immediate area for implications of recent presence. I was exceedingly lucky that in the bitter temperature a light dusting of snow had fallen, and there were a smattering of footprints all around the office.

I could easily pick out Watson's steps- both a good sign and a bad one. It meant first that he had been here, and he had not gotten lost or otherwise stopped before then. It also meant that he was now gone. His boots were singular to my eye- no shoe had quite the same sole as Watson's country boots, and with his limp factored in- his now even _larger _limp- it became more individual. The small rings alongside each foot indicated his crutches and removed any doubt.

So Watson had come in. His steps led into the door, but not out. Four other sets of prints went in, one staying outside. Watson's did not return, but the prints of two of the unknown feet were set deeper into the snow, as if they were carrying a burden.

All there was left to do now was follow the less-than-inconspicuous tracks to wherever they led-and with any luck, to Watson.


	87. Crutches Pt 12

**Watson**

I'd made up my mind to run. There was an adequate stick next to me that would serve as a makeshift cane for my injured leg, as I'd lost my crutches in the kidnapping process, and the boy that was supposed to be guarding me was occupied enough trying to roll a cigarette with the tobacco scraps his superiors had discarded in his general direction. The nefarious gun lay a few feet from him, not in easy reach and no longer cocked. Even a skilled marksman would have difficulty hitting a moving target in this maze of trees and disappearing light, especially if I used my advantages to their full potential. A child would have even more difficulties, even one experienced with firearms.

The group of adults was something to worry about. They sat perhaps twenty feet away, huddling around a fire eating a meager meal. They paid no attention to the boy or me at the moment. With the right timing and a great deal of luck I might make it.

Not one for unnecessary anticipation, I tightened my hand around the stick-cane and leapt up as silently and swiftly as I could, making rapidly for my predetermined direction, which was my best estimate of which way I'd come from, and was really at best a good guess. My leg didn't take to the quick movement as I'd have liked it to, but hardly as bad as I'd expected, and I made well enough with it in a hopping gait. My first glance back showed the boy just beginning to raise himself and drop his meticulously constructed cigarette into the dirt. I turn back 'round and heard a high-pitched cry of alarm, followed by gruff obscenities and a scurrying behind me. I was prompted to more even more quickly, my leg protesting the speed but my brain insisting for more urgency.

The child's voice mixed with those of the adults', and in a bout of hesitation I wondered what might happen to the boy for his failure to prevent my escape. A feeling of horror came over me. I was torn between my own escaped and the wretched child in pursuit of me.

* * *

A/N: This one just keeps snowballing.


	88. Crutches Pt 13

If there was one rational thought emanating from the turmoil of my mind, it was that I would never forgive myself should I leave the boy to his uncertain fate. Endeavoring to keep my conscience somewhat intact, I lurched to the right into a patch of bramble and ducked down, crawling as discreetly as I could back towards the camp. Soon enough I heard footsteps crashing towards me. I peeked up and spotted the boy running some length behind the group of men who had captured me. In a moment they had rushed by my hiding place, where I had sucked all the air into my lungs and held my limbs utterly still. The boy panted by behind.

When he came by I lurched out and grasped his ankles, pulling him towards me in a mighty haul and shoving my hand over his mouth. He kicked and strained, but I did my best to keep him arrested. Against my better nature, I smothered the boy in the bushes. Soon his muffled screams faded and his movements placated. For an instant I stopped and caught my breath, waiting to confirm that he had stopped struggling. I drew him out of the bushes, sitting him up but keeping one hand over his mouth and one around his arm still.

In a low voice I attempted to assuage him, for I imagined it must have been a frightening position for him. I too would be screaming if I were a lad being apprehended by an antagonistic stranger.

"I have no intention of hurting you." I whispered. "I only want to help."

The child's panicked eyes met mine and they calmed a bit.

"Keep quiet and stay near me, please."

I said nothing else to him, no word of where we were going or what was going to happen to him, for I wasn't sure myself and there was a feeling of cognizance between us that indicated he understood.


	89. Crutches Pt 14

**Holmes**

It was a long and frustrating search that finally led me to a clue. At some point I must have stumbled back onto the trail. I spent an unacceptable amount of time wandering roun in the frozen forest, wondering why my tracking skills were failing me so utterly.

I found the scent again not by a misplaced twig or patch of flattened grass, but rather by a large and obvious clue. In a small clearing smoldered the ashes of a fire recently attended. I bemoaned my luck that I had been so close to stumbling into the actual culprits, not just their smoldering remains.

Watson had been here as well. A bit further along in the woods I espied several threads from his coat stuck on a bush.

The bush could mean two things: he had either fallen against it, a sign that he was being misused or likewise, of he had attempted to escape.

I wasn't sure which scared me more.

* * *

A/N: We're getting there. Really, we are. At this rate, we're just getting there very slowly.


	90. Crutches Pt 15

**Holmes**

I pride myself as being a man of acute awareness, yet at times I am completely disgusted with myself in that matter. In my pondering and concern over Watson I had closed my ears and my sense had been dulled so that I did not hear the footsteps come up behind me. In an instant my hands were held tightly behind me, my knees kicked out from under me, and my vision darkened as my face met with a pile of leaves. Even my best application of baritsu could not assist me.

Along with there being more of them than me, my adversaries knew what they were doing. They were no inexperienced criminals, as I'd assumed Hammett to be.

I was moved back to the makeshift camp, kicking and spluttering leaves from my mouth. I saw no sign of Watson.

"You gentlemen have been very courteous, waltzing into our hands at just the right time," one of the group addressed me. He looked familiar. My mind whirred, trying to place him.

"But your friend left us rather rudely. You must teach him some manners."

I was unnerved at how he'd figured out the connection between Watson and I, until I realized I had played right into this hand with my facial expressions. He hadn't known, only suspected. My changed of features had confirmed it.

But my ears had not failed to pick up the implication- Watson had escaped. Had he been captured again? The man addressing me was so confident…

"You must be Sherlock Holmes. From what I've read, you fit the bill. And I believe the other fellow had a moustache. The drawings never showed a moustache on Sherlock Holmes." He said this all very casually, as if discussing Watson's writings with another enthusiast.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I do enjoy reading about you."


	91. Crutches Pt 16

**Watson**

With a not inconsiderable amount of difficult, the boy and I made our way back into town. It was a desolate time. I wasn't sure of the boy's feelings towards me 'rescuing' him, but he came willingly enough. He stayed silent through my feeble attempts at small talk, which hardly seemed appropriate.

The town square, an extremely welcome sight to my confused sense of direction and frozen appendages, was dismally empty. Perhaps, it could be attributed to the cold and lateness of hour, but nonetheless it was a disheartening sight. I made for the stable, which I hoped would be occupied despite the aforementioned obstacles.

I entered into the pub next to the stable to find it scarcely populated, but fortuitously populated all the same. There was the barkeep, a few sad drunks, and a frantic looking Dr. Wesley, who was chatting urgently with the nearest customer.

"Dr. Wesley," I called in a pitifully hoarse voice.

The distraught doctor turned in a whirl towards my young companion and I.

Oh, Doctor Watson!" he exclaimed, tripping over to us and grabbing me excitedly by the arm. "How absurdly wonderful it is to see you! And who is this? My dear doctor, please, have a seat by the fire. You look positively tried."  
I accepted the invitation gratefully, pulling the boy with me.

"Something nutritious would not go unappreciated." I managed to slip in between the doctor's twittering.

"But of course!" Dr. Wesley turned to the bar, ordering for the boy and I. I looked down at the lad, and back at Dr. Wesley, and in that moment the young fellow and I shared a look of understanding that did more to bond us than all our previous trials.

Dr. Wesley arrived in a fluster in front of us again, pulling up a chair and plopping down in it.

"You must tell me everything, my boy." He said, as it we had just been on a nice little holiday and not a lethally dangerous hostage situation.

But there was something in the forefront of my mind.

"Where is Holmes?"

Dr. Wesley looked as though he'd just remembered. "Why, he's out looking for you!"

I stood up, clutching at my crutches and somehow maintaining balance. Immediately I made for the door.

"Doctor Watson!" Doctor Wesley cried, circling around to block my path. "You can't seriously go back out."

"I'm afraid you don't understand, Doctor. It's dangerous," I stated.

"Precisely my point." Dr. Wesley exclaimed.

"At a time like this, I would be forever in debt to you for your help, and forever annoyed with you for your hindrance. Please, doctor, time is of the utmost importance."

Dr. Wesley was beaten. "I'll notify the constable."


	92. Crutches Pt 17

**Holmes**

I have had more than my fair share of interacting with criminals. There are two distinct groups of them and it is easy to distinguish between the two when one is put face to face with them. The first group is the type of criminal that inspires fear. These are usually the hardened, experienced villains, those who you know are not afraid to put a bullet through your head. The second is the class of rapscallions that can easily be described as amateurs and look far more nervous about the affair than you are. The rag-tag gang I faced now was clearly of the latter group. Seeing them in fading light, I was ashamed to have been beaten by them.

The leader, who sat across from me, succeeded only in sounding melodramatic, not frightening. In truth, I was completely apathetic to their endeavors. I only wanted to find Watson safe and well and return to Baker Street.

The leader criminal drawled on about Watson's stories. Eventually I became so fed up with the situation that I raised my fist and dealt him a hard left hook. The pathetic fellow bowled straight over onto his back and I stood up, daring another member of the group to take me on.

"See here, this is what's going to happen," I began. "I'm going to escort you dreadful hooligans to the police stations, where, if you've any sense, you'll turn yourselves in and avoid a long period of punishment."

I distributed such a glare on them that I doubt any man would have been able to rebel against me at that moment. I walked up to the nearest man and snatched his gun from his pocket, using it to coral the remaining members in front of me. With a few short words I had them moving in the direction of town.

* * *

A/N: Nearly done with this arc...almost there!


	93. Crutches Pt 18

**Watson**

We were quite the odd procession wandering through the woods. I led the pack, limping along on my crutches, the boy beside me and Dr. Wesley waddling along a few steps behind. The entirety of the town's police force, which consisted of one aging constable, followed along.

I made as much haste as my injury would allow, for the light was all but gone and a forest full of ruffians was even more dangerous as a dark, cold, forest full of ruffians. My injury was plain irritating now. I was used to some impedance of movement because of my leg and shoulder, but to be full out unable to walk properly was getting to me. At this point I just wanted it to heal so I could find my friend and go home.

I say that I led our group, but that is not perhaps the best term to use. I had little idea where I was going, and was basing much of our direction off of where I thought I had been when I was in the forest earlier. Trees and shrubbery look very similar, though.

I was beginning to become despondent. This could take a _very_ long time. To be sure, I would find Holmes, there was no alternative, but we could be wandering out here for ages. Who was to say that the gang hadn't relocated, or even left the town completely? There was also my company to consider- it wasn't good for the boy, and I wasn't sure how much Dr. Wesley himself could stand.

It became totally dark. The trees blocked most of the moonlight from coming in, but the little that did shrouded the woods in an eerie half-light. I stopped in a small clearing to try to clear my head and determine direction.

My ears suddenly picked up some sound- approaching footsteps, even a familiar voice…

"Come, now! I haven't got all day." The voice called.

I was sure of it now. The constable, however, didn't have the same revelation and started forward, pulling out his gun. He held it straight out, shivering slightly from the cold.

A shadowy group slowly emerged from the woods. I saw the constable tense, and I could not help but hope-

"Stop where you are!" shouted the constable to the approaching figures.

Holmes stepped forward into our immediate view. I grinned.

"Shut it," he told the constable, passing right by the him.

I put my hand on the policeman's gun and guided it down, smiling broadly at Holmes, who looked not a little tried.

"Constable, your efforts would be better directed to real criminals, please," Holmes stated flatly, gesturing to the group behind him that I recognized as the gang.

The constables eyes widened, but he took Holmes's orders and watched over the gang.

"Well done, old man," I greeted Holmes.

"It was not as if it was extremely difficult," Holmes sighed.

* * *

Finally, with the help of a local man with a cart, and in the middle of the night, we were on our way to the larger town where we would catch a train back to London. We'd said our hasty goodbye to the gushing Dr. Wesley and left the gang within the jurisdiction of the constable, who had likely not seen such action for a long decade. We took the boy with us, though I had no plans whatsoever of what to do with him.

I had explained quietly to Holmes how I'd acquired the boy's company, and he'd nodded in acquiescence. Much as I might ponder over the boy's fate, I could come to no conclusions. Later, sitting in the cart, Holmes spoke. He was leaning back in the seat, slumped over with his eyes closed, a posture probably truly inspired from tiredness rather than boredom, as it usually was.

"I know a man and his wife who have longed for a child but never had one. If it would suit you, I'm sure we could set something up." Holmes addressed the boy, talking to him as he would any adult.

The boy shrugged. "Sure."

Holmes settled back, and my mind cleared of the trouble this problem had been causing.

"And what's your name?" Holmes asked.

The boy gave Holmes a little smile. "Wiggins."

* * *

A/N: See what I did there? Related it back to canon? Yeah?

That's the end of that arc.


	94. The Empty House

It was a good thing that I waited to write up the business of Holmes's return for nearly ten years. If I had attempted to record the thing at the time, it would have been a jumbled mess of confused emotions and dialogue that is better kept to just Holmes and I. With time to reflect on the events, I have not only manifested the happenings, both personal, between Holmes and myself, and investigatory, in terms of Colonel Moran; but I understand more clearly how emotionally useful it is to write such a delicate story. I debated with myself whether I should even write up such a case at all, but the public's hunger for a proper explanation of Holmes's revival won over at last, and nearly ten years after the events, I published "The Adventure of the Empty House."


	95. Not Entirely Sure

A/N: Another EMPT one. Sorry updates are slow, I'm attempting NaNo.

* * *

**Mycroft**

By April of 1891, I was well aware of Sherlock's deadly dance with his worthy opposition, one Professor James Moriarty. I didn't know the details, though; until he dropped by Pall Mall one night and informed me he was going to the Continent with Doctor Watson. Along with this news he handed me his will and some express instructions. I was somewhat alarmed at how prepared he was for death.

"And on last thing, brother mine," Sherlock finished, "Will you personally drive Dr. Watson to the train station in the morning?"

At this mention, my mind flashed to the doctor, and how he would be if what Sherlock anticipated really happened.

"Are you sure of what you're doing, Sherlock?"

He sighed.

"Not entirely."


	96. Blarney

A/N: A 221b, because I saw 'blarney' in the dictionary and it was too silly-sounding a word to pass up.

* * *

Despite his occasional lack of social etiquette and his unwillingness to make friends, Sherlock Holmes is without doubt the most suave man I know when the need arises. He has often used this tactic on clients when a remark or deduction upsets them, and he has turned it on me on countless occasions. If he is sometimes brusque or rude in his speech, he quite makes up for it with his soothing apologies.

It was often in this way that he would placate me after saying or doing something particularly uncouth, as he did one day when his frustrations could not be vented solely upon his chemistry set. He somehow managed to create a small explosion and subsequently ruined a section of the carpet. I was in no pleasant mood that day and did not react well to the damage to the furniture.

"Really, Holmes!" I exclaimed, exasperated. Holmes came over and put a hand on my shoulder.

He proceeded to talk me into complacency with discussion of how tolerant a flat mate and invaluable a companion I was. I ended up much the happier, nearly smiling as Holmes cut off the section of charred carpet and disposed of it in the fire.

"Goodness, Holmes," I reflected, after the incident was settled, "you will always win me over with your blarney."


	97. An Afghani Excerpt

_A/N: This is an excerpt from an unfinished story about Watson's time in Afghanistan. I may revisit it someday._  


* * *

"This war business is utter nonsense, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you. Don't be so sure of yourself, Sherlock. Show proper respect. There are soldiers out there that are no older than you."

"Then they are fools, brother mine."

* * *

The uniform did not fit. I should count myself lucky I had been issued a uniform at all, I supposed; most men had to alter their summer suits until they resembled the standard-issue khaki. One would think us a sorry army by a glance at the mismatched group waiting to board the troopship. I reckoned the old style had looked more professional, this khaki only succeeded in being itchy and ill-fitting.

Officers were still ornately clad, however, imposing over us even more so because we wore such rags. My medico uniform looked little more than a chimney sweep's costume. It scarcely was. I'd been given a too-long shirt with brass buttons going up the front and a collar that was already beginning to wilt even in the spring air. The trousers they'd flung at me hardly reached my ankles and fit my waist more snugly than was comfortable. I compensated by tucking the shirt into the trousers and the trousers into my boots. It was rather less sharp than I'd expected.

It seemed my entire experience with the British Army to this point had been less than glorious. The recruiting process was impersonal and unorganized. The officials were intent only on getting the next batch of troops overseas.

I was severely disappointed with the quality of troops, also. Thrice already I'd witnessed thievery between soldiers and we hadn't even set sail. I'd been sorely tempted to give one bloke a good knocking about after he snatched another fellow's socks right off the top of his luggage while the victim innocently waved to his mother. I had a mind about me to tell the offender I didn't fight on the same line as thieves, but figured it would do me more harm than good. My brother always said I'd an awful temper. I was forever reining it in. With proper conduct and any luck I would advance among the ranks. I had every intention to become Surgeon-Major by the peak of my military career. I would then retire and live comfortably off an army pension.

I had considered being a physician-in-practice, and I still entertained the thought at times, but ultimately dismissed it as an inexplicably boring lifestyle, and _that_ I could not abide. The army was a good choice. It had originally just been a temporary fix, for a medical student with no familial financial support must make his money somehow. The more I reflected on this military option, the more I fancied it. Any trace of bitterness I might have had about wasting years of my life disappeared. I was doing my duty to Queen and country.

I sat squarely on my valise, for having beheld three thefts already, I was taking no chances with my precious few items.

Among other goods in the valise were tucked two leather-bounds journals. That was something I would miss when on the front: writing. There would be little time for it, I imagined, but I still held onto some thread of hope that I'd be able to continue my scribbling even as a soldier. I held so tightly to that hope, indeed, that I took up valuable space in my bag by packing the journals. I hoped to fill them with brilliant war stories.

First, of course, I would have to find content worthy of a brilliant war story. The current Zulu War was less than notorious for bloody conflicts, and being stationed in Bombay, as I would be, was about as safe as it got. I was no fool, I did not intend on being recklessly killed, but I wouldn't mind seeing some action.

There was also the ever-brewing Afghan conflict to consider. I doubted much would come of it, for the majority of the public did not support the idea of violent confrontation and the small skirmishes that happened occasionally were hardly enough to call a war. Even if something did break out, our clearly superior troops would surely put down any resistance with no trouble.


	98. Tea with the Ladies

_A/N: Cryptix nudged this bunny onto me, and I wrote it up because the idea is so amusing to me and I owe her some crack in return for all the bunnies I've thrown at her._

* * *

My friend Sherlock Holmes is without a doubt the most antisocial man I have ever met. He is often rude, rarely one for idle conversation, and a self-professed hater of the fairer sex. I have frequently found him disagreeable to even the simplest of dinner parties.

Imagine, then, my surprise when I returned to Baker Street from my practice one afternoon to hear his voice ringing with laughter amidst several womanly tones. I went to the kitchen to investigate, for something must be up- Holmes was not only laughing, he was doing so with _ladies_.

The scene that appeared before me is one of the most surprising things I have seen in all my days.

Sherlock Holmes sat at the round kitchen table, a teacup and platter in one hand and the other gesturing daintily in the air. Occupying the other seats at the table were three elderly women, one of them Mrs. Hudson. They looked on Holmes with admiring expressions and hung on to each of his words with a smile and a chuckle. They really were getting along rather well.

Holmes noticed my presence at the door and turned to address me.

"Care to join us, Watson?" he asked congenially.

I was utterly baffled.

"Eh…no- I mean, I must…hat," I finished lamely, pointing with my hat in my hand up the stairs, attempting to show that I should hang my headgear up.

Holmes nodded in consent and turned back to the table. I left quickly and behind me peals of laughter sounded from Holmes and the old ladies.

* * *

_A/N: I'm fairly certain Holmes never actually says that he hates the "fairer sex", but I can't remember the quote when he talks about not liking women. Anyone care to help me out?_


	99. Books

Dr. Watson had an impressive personal library, one to be envied by any literary enthusiast. His medical collection alone occupied the whole of a hearty oaken bookcase, and another similar bookcase was filled with a variety of texts, ranging from Clark Russel's fine sea-faring novels to Henry Ward Beecher's pamphlets to a modest row of his own published works.

Despite the diversity and quantity of his assortment, undoubtedly there were three books- perhaps not of any particular merit to the casual observer- that the doctor treasured above the rest of his collection unconditionally: _Catullus_, _The Holy War_, and _British Birds_.


	100. Perceive

When at last I deemed it appropriate and rather necessary for me to abandon London and my practice for a more sedentary life, of course my first inclination was to go to my dear old friend Sherlock Holmes. I sent him a telegram, as he was averse to phone conversations and still preferred his old methods, and received a brief but excited reply.

It had been some long while since I had actually seen my friend in person, and our correspondence of late had been minute indeed. I was almost nervous about finally seeing him again on the ride out to Sussex, but all of that was dispelled when he met me at the station, gripped my hand warmly, and uttered, "You have been in London, I perceive."

* * *

_A/N: 100 chapters? When did that happen?_


	101. Napoleon

_A/N: I really hope this makes sense._  


* * *

Simply by listening to the awe and sincerity with which Sherlock Holmes spoke of Professor Moriarty, I was able to grasp just how powerful and influential the man must have been. Holmes did not lightly praise criminals for their cunning. He was obviously convinced this Moriarty was a force to be reckoned with.

I, however, had unfailing confidence in my friend's abilities of foiling felons like Moriarty, for I had seen such foiling first hand. Therefore, when Holmes soberly declared to me that Moriarty was "The Napoleon of Crime", I replied without hesitation, "Then you are surely the Russian winter."


	102. Theatre

It has long been a custom of ours for Holmes to invite me to the theatre as a way of apology. I am not exactly certain when this tradition began, but I imagine it started in the early days of our acquaintance, from Holmes's proffering a few seats to the current show after a long and tiring case. Tickets to the theatre became offerings of consolation for whatever had happened; they were a way of showing his appreciation for something I had done or remorse for something he'd done; and best of all, they came in a convenient package that forewent the tedious use of words that Holmes found so difficult.

I enjoyed plays, though I knew that Holmes was less than enthusiastic about such "romantic frivolities". That he was willing to suffer through one for my benefit convinced me of his sincerity. I came to accept these outings as just as good as any verbal apology, for I could tell they were just as heartfelt. It was fitting indeed, when the first night of my return to Baker Street after Holmes's hiatus he procured two tickets to the theatre.


	103. Baker Street

A/N: Inspired from a little remark from Cryptix that apparently Baker Street wasn't the most fashionable area. Not dangerously unfashionable, not even exactly _unfashionable_, just no Arlington Street.  


* * *

When Sherlock Holmes and I took our rooms in Baker Street in 1881, neither of us were in particularly agreeable financial straits, and so our choice of housing was not an distinct priority. However, in subsequent years, with the exponential growth of Holmes's reputation and clientele, and the establishment of my practice, our monetary concerns were assuaged. Nevertheless, not when I moved out to my Paddington practice with Mary, not when Holmes supposedly perished in the Swiss falls, not when we took up lodgings together again in '94, _not once_ did we consider selling the rooms.


	104. Sentences 1

_A/N: I found this old file in my WIP folder from several months ago. It's an exercise in which you try to sum something up in one sentence. I though I'd post a few sets of them._

* * *

1. Many times Mycroft found himself wishing Dr. Watson's older brother was alive and well, for the doctor's sake and for his own sanity- an empathetic ear for his worries over his younger brother's antics would have been warmly welcomed.

2. I wondered if among Holmes's vast wells of knowledge he possessed a complete memorization of the dictionary, for his usual introduction of me as an 'intimate friend and associate' matched exactly Merriam-Webster's definition of 'comrade'.

3. Holmes was adamant that it would be "both or none" when I was present to listen to a client, but I was baffled when he actually turned down a promising case, after weeks of stagnation no less, because of the client's objections to my presence.

4. For the few bittersweet months the baby had lived, sleep had not come easily for it- more often than not I found myself humming _Lieder Ohne Worte_ as a lullaby.

5. He hated the black moods, hated the lethargy, the apathy, the acrimony that seized his brilliant friend, and hated how his own emotions always became identical to the detective's.


	105. Sentences 2

6. Mycroft Holmes was of the opinion that no reforming school his parents had ever sent Sherlock to could equal the edification that his younger brother had received from Dr. John Watson.

7. Holmes had taken the concept of getting a new perspective quite literally, and now gazed royally over the scene of the crime from the branches of a nearby oak.

8. Watson could not help but laugh when Holmes inherited several boxes of romantic sea-faring novels from his late uncle with the inscription that said uncle was certain Holmes would 'enjoy them thoroughly'.

9. When Lestrade first saw the two of them together he could not recall any two men more socially unsuitable for each other, but by the time of his retirement from active duty, he was certain he would never see a pairing closer to perfect.

10. Holmes prided himself on being rather fearless, but he would freely admit he was well and truly terrified when he lost Watson in the dark dockyard.


	106. Sentences 3

11. The tweed had always seemed rather dull, but when it changed (almost) permanently to full black, even Gregson found himself wishing for Dr. Watson's brown suits to return.

12. Inspector McFerrin, whose only experience until now with Holmes had been through the Strand stories, was left slack-jawed when Watson not only kept intelligently engrossed in the investigation, but also suggested the vital point to help Holmes close the case.

13. When claims were made that the stories in the Strand were fiction, Holmes heartily agreed- there was no such person in existence with the same incompetent qualities portrayed by the 'Dr. Watson' character.

14. Holmes had anticipated a negative shift in character once Watson recovered from his military exploits but was instead pleasantly surprised to find that the 'new set of vices' was even less obtrusive than the first.

15. More than once he'd almost died from too many drugs in his system, and not all of the times were case-related.


	107. Sentences 4

16. If Watson woke up injured without Holmes by his side he knew he had work- and possible life saving- to do.

17. Mycroft's formal dinners became much more easy for Holmes to endure when he started inviting Watson.

18. For the veritable hermit he claimed himself to be, Holmes's 'funeral' gathered quite a large crowd.

19. Often Holmes felt he was holding Watson back from greater achievements but when he tentatively professed his worries to the doctor, the denial he got was forceful enough to convince him otherwise.

20. The maid at Watson's new house was puzzled by some of the doctor's odd habits; the first time she'd gone to empty the coal scuttle she had found it full of cigars.


	108. Sentences 5

_A/N: Here's the last set of these sentences. At least, this is the end of the document I found in my WIP folder. I might decide to write more sooner or later. _

_I should mention that 1-23 were beta-d by Cryptix, which is largely the reason they are grammatically correct. 24-27 I wrote to finish up this last set, but haven't been beta-d so any mistakes are mine.

* * *

_

21. I was thrilled when Holmes introduced me as his "intimate friend and associate" for the first time, firstly because he had proven to be as tightly shut as a clamshell and just as hard to penetrate, and secondly, because he apparently considered me an associate in his investigations, rather than a tag-along who got in the way altogether too much.

22. Sometimes Watson hated his wild imagination, it made nightmares that much worse.

23. I'd traveled by chugging train, speeding boat, careening hansom, and just about every other type of vehicle imaginable, but when Watson showed up on that new-fangled two-seater motorcycle, I politely refused his offers for a ride.

24. Exotic snakes, phosphorescent hounds, bullets and blackmailers- nothing horrified Watson more than a waterfall.

25. He should have known Holmes wouldn't accept the knighhood; he wouldn't even accept credit in the local paper.

26. There was never a day Watson looked more smug that when the Copernican Theory proved to e a vital point in one of Holmes's cases.

27. The Sherlock Holmes Blood Test, the same one that had caused him such joy when he'd perfected it, now brought him frightful despair as he performed it on the tweed jacket that was the only lead he possessed to track down his missing best friend.

* * *

_One more thing. If there are any of these sentences you'd like to see expanded on, drop me a review with the number and I'll do my best write something a bit longer for it._


	109. Strawberries 1

_A/N: This is the beginning of the expansion for sentence 27, as requested. Looks like it's going to be told in drabbly-type things, though that could change._

_ A refresher of the sentence itself:_

_The Sherlock Holmes Blood Test, the same one that had caused him such joy when he'd perfected it, now brought him frightful despair as he performed it on the tweed jacket that was the only lead he possessed to track down his missing best friend._

_

* * *

"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt, but practically-"_

How he hoped, with fervor, that it would come to some practical use.

_Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features._

Had his own brother disappeared, anxiety could not have plagued him so.

"_I've found it! I've found it! I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else."_

If only he could find his friend. Nothing else.

* * *

When one makes one's living as a private consulting detective, one learns to subsist with a constant, if sometimes subtle, threat of danger. Yet with a sturdy revolver or a trusty companion or both, one fends off danger quite effectively. Danger is an element of work; one expects it to emerge in such a frequently perilous occupation.

One does not, however, expect it to crop up with no connection to a case- random, unjust, and tragic.

One certainly does not expect it to happen to one's closest friend.


	110. Strawberries 2

The sun shone with the singular might of newly-born spring. The sky was a brilliant blue. Even the cobblestones seemed to click along in a happy song under the horses. Spring had finally burst through the stubborn remnants of winter and declared its rule. It was a lovely day, the kind that radiates cheer.

A cab rolled along the streets. The joyful shrieks of children and pedestrian banter floated through the open front seat. The vehicle travelled toward Fleet Street, where a crotchety, bad-natured old man with rheumatism awaited a doctor. The doctor, under the charming influence of spring, couldn't feel better about going to see him.

Around a deserted corner, not yet close to Fleet Street, the cab rolled to a stop. The passenger leaned out to ask the driver what caused the sudden halt, and was met with a club to the ear. He crashed out of the cab and stumbled to the ground.

* * *

Holmes could understand Dr. Watson not returning that evening- they could always go see another concert. It was not unusual, he _was_ a doctor, and doctors frequently kept odd hours.

Holmes could accept him not coming back the next morning- a particularly engaging patient, he supposed.

He wasn't frightened when the doctor hadn't returned that afternoon. He was probably catching up on sleep at an inn somewhere.

It was when a constable came by with the message that they'd fished a tweed jacket out of the Thames with Watson's name inscribed on the collar that got him worried.


	111. Strawberries 3

Holmes went to Lestrade specifically. Never mind that Lestrade was up to his ears in casework already, or that he hadn't finished his paperwork from _last_ month, let alone this one, or that Holmes continually insulted him when they investigated together. Never mind that Holmes placed the officers of the Yard on the same intellectual level as uneducated children. Never mind all that. _Holmes_ came to _Lestrade. _

Maybe, just maybe, the trust Lestrade had in Holmes (dare he say respect?) was returned.

* * *

Holmes demanded to see the jacket at once. He came charging into Scotland Yard with the unlucky constable trailing behind. His presence seemed surprisingly diminished without the doctor by his side.

It was all very brusque, very professional. Holmes might have been investigating a stranger's disappearance rather than his closet friend's. The detective did show some limited emotion, but it wasn't concern or anxiety like Lestrade might have thought. It was more of a hard, upset determination. Even this was a shriveled representation of normal human expression. It was only when they directed their hansom towards the river that Lestrade saw a little wild fear in Sherlock Holmes's eyes.


	112. Strawberries 4

Was London not renowned for gloomy weather? Was the atypical English sky not a gray, cloudy mist?

Why, then, did the sun sit overhead in a golden glow, and the puffy white clouds float by peacefully, and the birds chirp?

Out of all the days he could have sympathized with bad weather, this one was prime. It didn't feel right to scrutinize the cobblestones for bloodstains while nature so blatantly flaunted the arrival of spring.

The riverside offered no clues. He hadn't expected it to. Water was a remarkable eraser of evidence. The jacket was what he was relying on for leads. He would have to make a proper, thorough study of it when he got back to Baker Street.

* * *

"I want the jacket."

"You know very well that it's police evidence."

"And you know very well that I can deduce more from it than you or anyone at the Yard can."

"I can't go about deliberately breaking Yard code."

"By Jove, Lestrade, you deliberately break Yard code every time you invite me on an investigation. I _need_ that jacket. Please."

"Don't you dare tamper with it- I need it looking just like it did when I gave it to you."

"We may make a good Inspector out of you yet, Lestrade."


	113. Strawberries 5

**Holmes**

Every time I had performed the Sherlock Holmes blood test before, it was on the garments of a dead man. Taking a sample of the satin from Watson's familiar jacket was therefore deeply unsettling. To perform such a detached procedure on such an intimate object nearly made it impossible to focus.

Yet focus I must. Each passing second was important in a situation such as this.

The test indicated the stain was of blood.

I watched my fingers shake and heard my breath quiver. My eyes locked on the alien stain.

Then, almost by accident, I caught sight of a second stain- of a slightly, just slightly, different hue.

In an instant I had the additional stain sampled and tested. The vial turned a light purple. I check the color-coordinate sheet and puffed out a breath. Along with blood, Dr. Watson's jacket was stained with fruit.

**Lestrade**

When Mr. Holmes returned to Scotland Yard, it was sans jacket and plus canine. This first bit disconcerted me, because I feared he had broken my reluctant usufruct on the garment, which was in fact important police evidence. However, the second heartened me. If Sherlock Holmes had a dog, then Sherlock Holmes had a lead.

Holmes provided little explanation except "come", and climbed into the growler waiting outside, dog and all.

I asked, "Have you a lead?"

He answered, "Yes."

In the interest of limiting further snark from Holmes, I shut my mouth and spent the rest of the ride gazing out the rattling window. It did not take long for me to recognize our route; it was identical to a few hours previous. We alighted at the same stretch of Thames bank that my constable had fished the doctor's jacket from. Although I was confident there were no more clues to be found here, I swallowed my confidence, for years of experience with Holmes had taught me to doubt myself often. Holmes then did a curious thing (as Sherlock Holmes is wont to do): he reached into his pocket and shoved a fistful of strawberries into the dog's face.

The dog sniffed and rummaged its nose in the fruit. I was convinced that any moment the creature would gulp the things down in a mouthful, but instead the animal put its nose to the cobblestones nearby and yanked Holmes down the street, away from the river and back into the dockside labyrinth. I followed the two of the best I could, keeping an awkward sort of jogging gait.

They bared an uncanny resemblance to each other, the detective and the dog. They both studied the ground, heads bent, leptorrhine features like arrows pointing the way.

Sherlock Holmes, however, did not have the olfactory capabilities of a hound and therefore had nearly as much trouble following the dog's abrupt turns and jerking corners as I did. We'd only zigzagged a short way into the city when the dog stopped in a small alleyway and looked at Holmes expectantly. Holmes drew a biscuit from his pocket and tossed it to the dog, giving it a glancing pat on the head as he dropped the lead and paced further into the passage.

I made to follow him, but was halted by an upraised hand and ashrill cry of "stop"  
that Holmes delivered without lifting his head. In a moment I realized that he was scouring the ground for footprints. I leaned at the mouth of the alley and wondered briefly why he had brought me along at all.

"We are in luck, Lestrade," Holmes said, after a considerable pause and some crawling about on his hands and knees.

"What have you found?"

"Several things, the best of which is that this passageway is not paved, only packed with dirt. Additionally, I can say with reasonable confidence that our man is shorter than average, with small feet; he is a denizen of the lower working class, and has visited the area near Lincoln's Inn Fields within the last 24 hours. He also recently bought from a strawberry vendor, but I'm afraid the fruit were mostly squished when he made his attack on Watson.

Familiarity may have taken _some_ of the edge off my admiration (1), but Holmes's chains of deductions still rarely failed to impress me. I raised my eyebrows.

Holmes came back over and took the dog's lead from me, turning out onto the thoroughfare.

I cleared my throat and made an attempt at a retort. "You took his height from the length of his strides, which were fairly easily determined by the footprints in the dirt (the luck bit about the passageway not being paved is that footprints were left). The small feet, too, came from the prints. As for the strawberries, perhaps you saw a few of them discarded or dropped in the alleyway. I am lost as to the rest of the points."

We turned the corner onto a street with more pedestrian and less wheeled traffic.

"We are looking for a fruit vendor," Holmes said, "So keep a watch out. Your observations are sound, Lestrade, especially as you did not actually examine the prints for yourself. You are correct on the height and feet deductions, although not the strawberries. The boot deduction was somewhat obvious. I imagine if you had seen the prints, you may have noticed the type of boot they were made by. It was distinctly working-class and poor quality, hence the lower-class deduction. I would not expect you to make the link to Lincoln's Inn Fields, as that is a specialty of mine. I've made a thorough study of the different types of mud in London and where they can be found. There is some soil in that alley that is used in the Lincoln's Inn Fields gardens, and scarcely anywhere else. The mud must be from the last twenty-four hours, because we haven't had rain in as much time. "

"Very well," I said, "and the strawberries?"

"The strawberries were partly a previous deduction, one resulting from the stain test I ran on Dr. Watson's jacket. One certain stain on the jacket matched exactly that of strawberry juice. To support that theory, I found a pottle (2) discarded in the alley back there. As I know that Watson does not buy from street vendors (his medical nature discourages him from the dubious health benefits of street food), then his attacker must have had the berries. Ah, here, Inspector, is our destination."

Holmes raised his voice as we approached the cart. "Lestrade, a friend of mine said he bought some strawberries from a vendor in this area." We lumbered closer to the vendor. "He assured me it was fine fruit."

The wrinkled old lady who managed the stall twisted her head towards us at the sound of potential customers. She shuffled a little in our direction and called out, "There's some fine fruit here, gentlemen."

Holmes turned as if seeing here for the first time. "I just can't remember which stall he said it was. I know it was near the Thames, but maybe it was around the bend…"

"Oh, no, sir," the woman cried, "I'm the only strawberry vendor in this district. I'm sure it's my fruit you think of, sir."

Holmes appeared to consider the woman's stall. "Perhaps you remember my friend? He was here not long ago. Short fellow, dressed in cabbie's attire."

The woman clicked her fingers together in thought, then grinned at us, with all the teeth she had, in recognition. "I know your friend, sir, I remember him. Dark-haired little fellow wearing a tattered old Chesterfield? Came by just a few hours ago, didn't he?"

Holmes smiled and proffered a handful of coins to the woman. "Yes, this morning, he said." She grinned back, with a few teeth, and presented Holmes with a pottle of berries.

Holmes, looking satisfied, led me away from the cart and down the street, further into the city.

"We've learned two things from that encounter, Lestrade. First, we've confirmed my theory about the strawberries, and; second, we have a valuable description of our man. He is dark-haired and wears a Chesterfield. The Chesterfield can tell us much. What do you make of it, Lestrade?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them from the chill. "Chesterfields are not a poor man's garment, and as you'd have me believe our culprit is poor, I don't see how the coat could be his. Perhaps he stole it?"

"Very good, Inspector, though just a bit off. The vendor said the coat was tattered and word. If he were to steal a coat, wouldn't he steal one that was in good order, rather than an old, torn one? No, I believe that this coat is the man's rightful property. It was probably once a fine coat, but the man fell upon hard times (hence his occupation as a cabbie) and the coat suffered the effects. Consider this, Lestrade: the crime committed on Watson was not a well-committed one. This fellow has left us more leads than a practiced criminal would- the discarded pottle, the footprints in clear view- it's all very amateur. My first inclination was to assume this crime was related to my cases, but the evidence all points otherwise. It's very possible that this was a random attack, and Watson just happened to be the victim. This fellow, having lost his finances somehow, has taken to cab driving and lifting stranger's purses (you'll notice we didn't find any money in Watson's jacket). I'm sure you've investigated both practiced criminals and amateurs, Lestrade, and surely you'll agree with me that this fellow is an amateur?"

"You make a point, Mr. Holmes. However, whether the fellow is an amateur or not, there is still the very real problem of Dr. Watson's location."

The fear that had been lurking in Sherlock Holmes's eyes manifested itself momentarily and his pallor whitened.

"I know," he whispered.

* * *

1- "Though familiarity may not breed contempt, it takes off the edge of admiration." -William Hazlitt

2- coned-shaped, fragile basket that vendors sold strawberries in.


	114. Strawberries 6

**Lestrade**

Holmes looked so defeated at my comment that I took it upon myself to resume the investigation.

"Might I suggest we visit the local cab bureau and see if they recognize a description of this fellow?"

The amateur detective nodded, looking now more like a gloomy puppy than a hound on the scent. I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us to the nearest bureau. With a flick of the reigns, the horses started along at a trot, and some of Holmes's elusive emotions appeared on his features.

We were able to gain entrance to the bureau's head fairly easily, as any qualms were refuted when I mentioned my title as Inspector. We were shown into a small room clustered with files and whirlwinds of paper rivaling those of Baker Street. The man who received us wore a great walrus mustache and dyspeptic expression.

"How may I serve you, gentlemen?" He sighed.

I explained our position and gave him the description of our criminal as best I could, often looking towards Holmes for help but obtaining none. At the end, the detective simply added, "He'll have been a recent hire."

The mustachioed man recognized my sketch of the crook immediately.

"Whithem, if I'm not mistake," he mumbled through his facial hair, "Only started near a month ago."

At the mention of a specific name, Holmes snapped to attention and regained some of his previous investigative fervor.

"Is he on shift right now? Do you have his house number on record?" Holmes queried, leaning over the big oak tabletop.

The man turned and pulled a book from the shelf behind him. He flipped it open and copied an address onto some foolscap, which he handed to Holmes.

"Whithem just dropped his cab off not an hour ago, if I'm not mistaken. He's off shift right now."

With this fresh information, Holmes swiveled and burst out the room, leaving me to shout a hurried thank you and retrieve my hat from the hall. By the time I was outside, Holmes had flagged down a cab and was showing the foolscap to the driver.

"Make haste, Lestrade," he called, "We are close."

I clambered in and we started off on the double, winding through streets and lanes back to the riverside. We stopped a few streets past Lincoln's Inn Fields, in a dirty, destitute neighborhood. Holmes pressed some money into the cabbies hand and took off down the road, his neck craning to find the address.

At a particularly dingy building, he bounded up the steps to banged on a door. A harrowed young lady answered, but Holmes brushed past her and up the stairs. I explained very briefly to and as consolingly as possible to the woman that we were on official police business, but when I left a moment later to follow after Holmes, she was a nervous wreck.

The scene I came upon was both uncharacteristic of Holmes and slightly illegal. Holmes had some poor fellow's, presumable Whithem's, collar grasped in his hand. He'd backed the man up to the mantlepiece. Wishing to avoid violence, I took Holmes's shoulder and led both detective and culprit to the couch, where Holmes relented his grip by shoving Whithem onto the cushions.

"Whithem, is it not?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," he yelped, his eyes darting between Holmes and me like a frightened rabbit.

"You assaulted a man this morning," Holmes continued, "What have you done with him?"

Whithem made a small, choked sound in the back of his throat, his face going white.

"I didn't-"

"Mr. Whithem," Holmes growled.

"I dropped him in the Thames," Whithem squeaked.

Holmes turned and smoothed his hair back with both hands. "From the beginning, please."

"I'm not a fiend, I'm really not. I was part of a respectable family once, gentlemen. My father

had investments-"

"Yes, yes, we know," Holmes interjected, pacing back and forth in the small room. "You fell on hard times and applied for a job as a cabbie. What happened at the attack?"

"I don't do this sort of thing often," the unfortunate fellow squealed again, earnestly, "I only meant to pull his purse when we stopped, but he saw me, and I had to knock him one over the head. I didn't mean to do it so hard, but his head was bleeding, and he didn't move and I was so frightened that I'd killed him, and I couldn't be arrested, I just couldn't. You must understand, gentlemen, I'm from a respectable family. So I dragged him down this little backway and rolled him into the river. I didn't mean to kill him, honest to God I didn't."

Holmes had grown more and more white throughout the narrative, but at this confession it he became positively transparent.

"You killed him?" he asked.

"I'm no doctor, but there was an awful amount of blood, sir."

As Holmes didn't look fit to stand up from the chair he'd collapsed in, much less lead on investigating, I cleared my through and stepped forward. I'll admit the idea of Dr. Watson being murdered by this man in front of me was a crushing one, but someone had to take care of the practical side of things.

"Holmes," I said, "I'm taking this man to the Yard and organizing a team to search the Thames. I'll send word to you at Baker Street if any new developments arise."

Holmes nodded, but did not move. I took Whithem's arm and led the scared little man down stairs, where I called two cabs and once again consoled the nervous landlady. Then Whithem and I trekked back upstairs, where I used my free hand to grab Holmesby the arm and lead _both_ of them back downstairs_._ I packed Holmes into a cab to 221b and, with the image of his white face in my mind, hoped that we'd miraculously find Dr. Watson alive.

**Holmes**

Mrs. Hudson was preparing tea and didn't hear me come in. I dropped my hat on the table and hung my coat on the hook and climbed the stairs. I collapsed at my desk in the sitting room and rested my chin on the desktop. The overwhelming concept that the cabbie had revealed to me was stuck in my throat, creating a lump I thought might asphyxiate me.

"I wonder if we could not fill this gap here with a few volumes. It looks untidy, does it not, Holmes?"

I jerked my head around to see Watson studying the shelf of books in the corner. I stood and stared at him for several seconds, and then lost my senses for a brief time. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Watson was standing over my chair, my flask in his hands.

"My dear Holmes," he said, 'Whatever affected you so?"

* * *

A/N: If anyone knows the proper name for a "cab bureau", please let me know. I tried to do some research but couldn't come up with anything, and in HOUN when they wire for a cabbie's number, they only refer to it as "head office".

One more wrap up section, and this arc is done.


	115. Strawberries 7

**Watson**

I settled Holmes into his chair by the fire and presented him with a fortifying glass of brandy. His reaction to my comment was remarkable- Holmes was not the fainting type. As he had never shown much interest in the tidiness of our bookshelves (or the sitting room as a whole, for that matter), I reasoned that some other factor must have brought about his spell. For a moment, I considered the small bandage on my head as a possible activator, but it was not a grisly enough wound to warrant my friend's collapse. More likely it was fatigue. He'd probably been running himself down on some case all week and the effects were just catching up to him.

I sunk into my chair across from Holmes and rubbed at the area behind my temple. Holmes took a last swig of brandy and sat up a little straighter. Before he could speak, I burst out, "What caused such a reaction from you?"

"Dear Lord, Watson, you don't even know?"

I searched my memory. Had I done something wrong? There had been some excitement today, but Holmes knew nothing of it.

"I cannot say that I do," I replied.

Holmes suddenly quirked an eyebrow and peered at me.

"What's that on your head?" he asked, "Are you hurt?"

I raised a hand to the bandage. "It's a small laceration, nothing to worry about but a headache."

"Not a concussion?"

"I _am_ a doctor."

Holmes reluctantly conceded, but still kept a wary look directed at my forehead. I was now even more curious on what had caused Holmes to faint, so I reposed my question.

"What caused your reaction?"

"_You_. The Yard sent me a wire that they'd found your jacket in the Thames. Lestrade and I investigated and came to the conclusion that you were most likely dead. Currently some constables are searching the river for your corpse."

"Oh."

"You can imagine that, given the circumstances, I was not my usual self. You will excuse my weakness, Watson, for it was an extremely stressful chain of events."

I would certainly excuse it, for Sherlock Holmes had just given me one of those rare, furtive glances into his heart that assured me he did value me as a companion. This was the sort of memory I'd draw on when he would sink into one of his wretched black moods or fill the sitting room with the noxious fumes of some experiment.

"My chain of deduction lead me to the conclusion that you drowned," said Holmes, "What _happened_?"

"I did lose my jacket in the Thames," I started, rather lamely.

"From the beginning, please."

Rarely do _I_ tell the revealing story at the end of an adventure, while _Holmes_ listens in rapt interest. I would have thoroughly enjoyed the brief role reversal, had it not been for the little pain in my head. Holmes, instead of leaning back with his eyes hooded as was his habit, sat forward in his chair, elbows on knees, and watched me the entire length of the tale.

"I began my day as any other, making house calls. One of my first patients was an old gentleman on Fleet Street, so I set off that way in a cab. Nothing seemed amiss until we turned into a side street, far from Fleet Street. I poked my head out to see where we were and ask the cabbie why we'd stopped, but then the cabbie, I suppose, knocked me over the head with something and I fell unconscious.

"My next memory is being shocked awake by the Thames water. I floundered about a bit, but was able to get my head above the surface. I am extremely lucky I was awoken by the water, or I would have drowned, as you deduced. A little ways downriver, I managed to clamber onto the bank and get out of the water. I lost my jacket in the process; I imagine that is how that Yard fished it up.

"Being then clad only in my shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and dripping wet, I availed upon a little house near the bank, and was lucky enough to find some very kind people, who lent me a seat by their fire, a jacket to wear home, and some cloth to bandage my head. I really must repay them, Holmes, for such kindness is not found often in the world.

"I returned home a little over an hour ago, and took a nap, for the whole experience was somewhat tiring. I assumed that you would know nothing of it, and so didn't think to contact you. I thought I would just relate the tale to you over tea."

"You gave me a scare, Watson, I'll admit. It seems we have enough crime in our lives without you being the victim of random acts of violence. At any rate, I am glad you're back safe and sound. If you don't mind, dear fellow, I'll visit the people the housed you after your excursion in the water. I feel that I alone can express full gratitude for you safe deliverance in this situation. Would you take some of that paper, there, and write our a telegram for Lestrade, telling him you're safe? And include at the end that he's been of inestimable value throughout this whole ordeal."

I wrote out the telegram and Holmes leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles. A little content smile played on his face.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door a moment later and came in with tea. It was a nice spread, two cups for Holmes and I, and delicious-looking pastries, topped with strawberries.

* * *

_A/N: The end. This arc has a name now, rather than series of numbers._


	116. Milkman

_A/N: For Mrs. Pencil_

* * *

Holmes's skill with prevarication and a milkman once saved our lives.

It was a perfectly miserable night to be anywhere but indoors, warm and cozy beside a glowing fire, huddled up with a cheap novel. The wind was wailing with all the grief of a banshee, the rain poured down in torrents, flooding the earth. Lightning illuminated the skies every few minutes, followed soon after by its rumbling and rambunctious successor. There was a terrible storm raging, and Sherlock Holmes and I were out in the thick of it.

Of all nights, the clouds had decided to empty their chambers on _this_ one. It was imperative that we be here, unfortunately. The house required a constant guard tonight should the criminals attempt a burglary. I highly doubted it in this weather. Nonetheless, we sat huddled against each other with our backs pressed to the fence. I was past drenched by now. I had stopped trying to wipe off the water droplets that dripped onto my nose, instead preferring to let them mix with the countless others that had collected on me.

I passed the first part of the night by reciting poems to Holmes, who feigned disgust at the "romantic nonsense", but paid reluctant attention. At half past three, we grew so despondent as to simply sit in wet, miserable silence, staring at the house. Hints of light started to show in the clouds.

I was fighting to keep my eyes open and Holmes rubbing his temples when we heard two metallic clicks at our backs. I went rigid and Holmes's hands froze in mid-rub.

"Turn around."

I slipped my hand into my revolver pocket as we turned, and felt my stomach drop as my hand grasped only at the cloth of my coat. I hadn't brought the gun, for Holmes said there was no chance of danger, just a vigil. Two men stood on the other side of the fence, leaning their shoulders over the post and pointing two guns at the tops of our heads.

"Planning on some burglary tonight, gentlemen?" Holmes asked, slowly standing, and facing the guns. I followed suit.

The two men looked at each other, and one further extended his revolver towards Holmes. Holmes went slightly pale, but at that moment a distant rattling came into earshot.

"Hear that, gentlemen?" Holmes asked, inexplicably gaining confidence in his speech. "That is a police cart, on its way here, ready to bring you into jail. Now, do you think your sentence will be shorter if they find you here with two dead men or two live ones?"

Holmes hadn't mentioned any police cart throughout the night, but I knew his tendency to withhold information, so I dismissed it. The two men were looking at each other again. One held the gun further still at Holmes.

"Keep in mind," Holmes added hastily, "That my friend has a loaded revolver aimed at you right this moment through the pocket of his coat, and I assure you, he has no compunctions about shooting either one of you."

I took Holmes's hint and made the shape of a gun with my hand, extending my index finger against the pocket.

The men threw one last glance at each other. One muttered something low and quick to the other, and they took off the way they had come. At that moment, the rattling came to a stop as a cart stopped up at the drive ahead. We ambled up the road to it. To my great surprise, it was no brougham filled with Yarders, but a dogcart with one lone milkman, who placed a bottle of milk on the front steps of the house and drove off.

"You didn't know?" I asked Holmes.

"Not one bit."


	117. Copernicus

A/N: An expansion for sentence #26: "There was never a day Watson looked more smug that when the Copernican Theory proved to be a vital point in one of Holmes's cases."

* * *

Despite his insistence to the contrary, I have rarely seen my friend Sherlock Holmes falter while solving a case, even in my considerable experience accompanying him. In light of this, the occasions on which he does falter are all the more notable- and, often, all the more elementary.

One such memorable happening was the case (if it can be regarded as such, for there was hardly any investigating) of Eoin Cluny's lost biography. Cluny visited us at Baker Street one rainy Sunday morning in July, preceded the day before by a telegram that much excited Holmes. He'd exclaimed to me that it seemed a singular case.

Cluny was a wiry, bespectacled man with a subtle Scottish drawl. Holmes received him warmly, sitting him down on the settee. Holmes sunk into his own chair, hooded his eyes, and motioned Cluny to begin. Cluny stuttered out his story, constantly wringing his fingers.

"Mr. Holmes, I am compiling a biography of Copernicus. It is a three volume set, the most extensive documentation of the great man to date. It has been my life's work for the past six years. I am-was- terrifically close to finishing. Unfortunately, a great misfortune has fallen on me.

"Thursday last, my wife and I went out to the theatre and left the house unattended (the maid was visiting her mother). I kept all my notes for my biography in one place, and there is only one copy; before this, Mr. Holmes, I never had cause to fear a burglary. Nevertheless, when we returned that night, the house had been broken into, and the only thing missing was my manuscript and notes.

Cluny paused, waiting for some sort of reaction from Holmes. The detective reclined deep into his chair, one hand languidly grasping his pipe. His lids had fallen to the point of imitating sleep. Cluny cleared his throat and shifted his eyes to me. I nodded to him to continue, smiling minutely.

"Gentlemen, I have no enemies, as far as I can think. I have spent my life in scholarly study and, to my knowledge, have never offended anyone severely enough to warrant this action. I cannot imagine why someone would want to rob me of my manuscript. What's more, Mr. Holmes, we aren't a poor household. We have silver on display clearly throughout the house. What kind of burglar passes up silver and takes a bundle of papers?"

I began to feel some excitement grow in me, the thrill that accompanies stumbling upon a solution. Listening to Cluny's narrative, I thought I saw a gleam of a theory forming. I imagined, if I was forming a theory, that Holmes had already solved the case. I half expected him to stop Cluny at that moment and present him with an answer, but the detective remained sunken into his chair, puffing away.

"Is there anything else you feel you should mention, Mr. Cluny?" Holmes's voice emerged from the smoke cloud.

"I think not. I've told you all."

"Perhaps I may ask a few things, then," Holmes sat up in his chair and opened his eyes.

"I would normally be perfectly wiling, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid I really must go. My wife and mother are waiting for me to take them to afternoon mass."

Cluny and I stood and shook hands. "You are a religious man, Mr. Cluny?" I asked, "It seems an odd combination, a churchgoer and Copernican scholar. I suppose your church is fully accepting of the theory?"

Cluny smiled. "I was raised so, and still participate for the peace of mind of my family, although I'm not so sure they approve whole-heartedly of my work. The church has been tolerant so far, although certainly not encouraging."

We shook hands once more and Cluny departed down the stairs. I turned to Holmes.

"Any theories?"

"Hmm?" he muttered, spinning from where he had been staring out the window. "I'm afraid not. There is simply not enough data. We'll have to invite Mr. Cluny back tomorrow."

I wondered briefly if I had missed some vital piece of information that made the puzzle more complex than I thought. A bit nervously, I procured my theory.

"Do you think the church could had something to do with it?"

"The church?" What use does a church have for a biography?"

A new thought entered my head.

"Holmes, do you know who Copernicus is?"

"No, of course not."

I grinned. "Then you may have some trouble with this particular case."

"Why? Does he make an difference to me or my work?"

"Yes, actually."

Holmes fell silent.

I explained, "Copernicus developed the idea that the earth rotates around the sun, and not vice-versa. As churches had preached otherwise for hundreds of years, they opposed the theory. There is a general acceptance now, but no doubt there are still some groups who reject the theory. Would it not be in their best interests to prevent new information about the theory coming out? The most extensive book on Copernicus to date, Cluny said. Wouldn't they want to stop that?"

Holmes regarded me strangely, puffing slowly on his pipe. I wriggled a little.

"A perfectly logical conclusion, Watson." he conceded. He went t his desk and scribbled out a telegram.

I couldn't resist one little jab. "Perhaps you should reconsider that primary school education."


	118. He Was

The day we met, I was convinced he was magician.

I was told the proper term was "amateur detective".

After the first case, he was an investigative revolutionary.

In many instances, he was an obscure chemist .

Frequently, he was a convincing actor.

On quiet evenings, he was an engrossed musician.

In Mr. Sholto's case, he was a triumphant boxer.

To my surprise, he was even an author.

For three years, he was dead.

Then he was a miracle. He was back.

He was often a smokestack.

He was retired, and he was a beekeeper.

Always, he was my friend.


	119. Forgotten

He felt like he had forgotten something.

But he hadn't. He had checked; he had the jemmy, the picks, even the dark lantern (after nearly perfecting the art of blind-lock-picking last time). It was a routine break-in. Almost too routine for his tastes. He'd only taken the case because the governess wore the ring on her third finger and not her fourth. So why did everything feel so out of place?

It was only when he was climbing through the window that he realized what was missing: the disapproving, objecting, denouncing, _enthralle_d voice inevitably climbing through after him.


	120. Dissimulation

Sherlock Holmes, although not altogether concerned with the public eye, had more than once requested I did not publish the very few cases in which he failed. I would have never dreamt of such a thing, with or without his request, but I acquiesced all the same. Given that he was able to hide some of his flaws through my scribbling, I only thought it fair to be able to hide some of mine. Granted, it is my utmost duty and honor to deliver the facts just as they happened, save for a few instances of name or date changes so as to preserve the reputation of our clients. But surely there was no harm in blurring a bit of my behavior, more specifically the type that originated from my little bull-pup.

I did not do this often. As Holmes has asserted many times, I am by no means an apt dissimulator, and I write accounts, not fiction. Nor do I often flare my temper. However, within my long acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I may easily confess that he has been a little trying at times, and I do believe my actions were justified.

Let is suffice to say that, should one be wandering on a moor after days of frustration and worry and misery and perchance discover one's dear friend hiding in a hut, _lying_, one has the irresistible inclination to deliver a formidable remonstration. Perhaps accompanied by a jab to rival that "cross-hit of his".


	121. Friends it rhymes

_A/N: With regard for the greatest Holmesian poet I know (move over, Vincent Starrett) and a brilliant friend, mrspencil._

* * *

Friends meet in hospital labs through a mutual acquaintance

Friends both deal with medicine, although only one with patients

Friends discuss recent return from a middle eastern location

Friends might share digs, despite one's strange reputation

* * *

Friends meet at flat in Baker Street, 221b

Friends find that it looks nice, quite ho[l]m[s]ey

Friend plays violin, doesn't garden, knows anatomy

But has puzzling and sometimes perplexing company

* * *

Friends go to crime scenes with scarlet threads

Friends look at fingernails of people long dead

Friends describe height and that complexion is red

And friends leave inspectors full of dread

* * *

Friends investigate for a good bit of time

Until Friends start a case, and then there's a SIGN

Friends start to get a bit misaligned

One Friend has proposed, now _that's _the real crime

* * *

Friends live apart but still snoop around

Until Friends go on a "holiday" out of town

Friends have beat snakes and robbers and blackmailers and hounds,

But one friend falls into a waterfall and drowns

* * *

Doctor's quite sad when he reads the letter

But at least he has wife to make some things better

(And perhaps a baby, too), however,

They both die, too, which makes his eyes wetter

* * *

Friends meet on court steps, one knocks the other aside

Friends meet in consulting room, one faints, eyes wide

Friend says "I wasn't dead, I was just forced to hide."

Other Friend says "I am very surprised."

* * *

Friends again play detective, it's sure fun, wow!

And things seem quite happy again now

Friends finish up and they take their last bow

Now one friend keeps bees, and the other says "ow."


End file.
